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English and American 
Literature 


A COURSE OF STUDY IN LITERARY INTERPRE¬ 
TATION AND HISTORY, WITH APPLIED 
METHODS OF TEACHING READ¬ 
ING AND LITERATURE 


BY 

CHARLES H. SYLVESTER 

FORMER PROFESSOR OF LITERATURE AND PEDAGOGY IN THE 
STATE NORMAL SCHOOL AT STEVENS POINT, WISCONSIN 


Including Numerous Masterpieces 


VOLUME I, FICTION 


CHICAGO 

BELLOWS BROTHERS COMPANY 








LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

APR 6 1907 

/ Copyright Entry 

7. 

CLASS A XXc,, N<f. 

I 7 3 o 

COPY B. 




Copyright, 1902, by Bellows Brothers Company 


Copyright, 1907, by Bellows Brothers Company 


All rights reserved 






preface 


This course of study grew out of classroom ex¬ 
perience, in which teacher and student were in 
daily conversation. An earnest effort has been 
made to adapt the instruction to those who study 
at home, and the success which the course has 
met in previous editions indicates that students 
find it helpful. 

To make manifest some of the beauties which 
the hasty reader passes without recognition; to 
teach something of the causes and growth of liter¬ 
ary power as shown in its history, and to create 
a genuine and abiding interest in the various forms 
of good literature, are the aims of the course. 

As a basis, many selections have been made 
from the writings of noted authors. In the choice 
and arrangement of these masterpieces, it has been 
remembered that enjoyment is an essential part of 
profitable reading ; and that enjoyment is promoted 
if, at first acquaintance, the student confines his 
attention to salient points of interest, and leaves 
the deeper significance and mored elicate beauties 
for future studies. 

The different departments of literature are 
3 



Ipretace 


studied in the following order : Fiction ; essays ; 
orations; lyric poetry, including songs, odes, 
elegies and sonnets ; epic poetry, and the drama. 
The study of style, and the history of American 
and English literature have been deferred to the 
last. * 

The present edition is much improved and en¬ 
larged by the addition of many practical exercises 
in applied methods, by which it is hoped to make 
easier and better the teaching of reading and 
literature in public schools. 

It is by special arrangement with Houghton, 
Mifflin and Co., the authorized publishers of the 
works of Holmes, Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell, 
Whittier, Hawthorne and others, that the selec¬ 
tions from their works are used. 

C. H. S. 

Chicago, May, 1907. 


4 


IDolume ©ne 


fiction 




Contents 

Page 


Preface . . ..... 3 

The Study of Fiction.13 

The Great Stone Face— Hawthorne . . 23 

Note.21 

Study of the Story.60 

Narrative Poetry.71 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner— 

Coleridge .73 

Study of the Poem.103 

Enoch Arden— Tennyson .109 

Study of the Poem.149 

The Ambitious Guest — Hawthorne . . .157 

Studies ..155 

Wee Willie Winkie— Kipling .173 

Applied Methods.197 

Reading for the Story.197 

How Andy Saved the Train .... 200 
The Ugly Duckling— Andersen . . .215 

Incident of the French Camp— Browning 244 
The Miller of the Dee— Mackay . . .250 

Wee Willie Winkie— Kipling . . . .257 

The Romance of the Swan’s Nest— 

Mrs. Browning .268 

7 
















Contents 


Page 

Miscellany 

Nathaniel Hawthorne ....... 279 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.284 

Alfred Tennyson.288 

Rudyard Kipling.289 

Supplementary Reading.293 

The Novel.294 

The Short Story.299 

Observations.300 

Great Novels.. . 301 

Review Questions.304 

7 


& 












H [lustrations 


Page 

Portrait of Nathaniel Hawthorne . Frontispiece 
Old Man of the Mountains, in the White 
Mountains, N. H. Supposed to be what 
Hawthorne had in mind when he wrote 

The Great Stone Face .28 

A Great Stone Face in the Dells of the St. 

Croix River.42 

The Old Manse, Hawthorne’s home at Con¬ 
cord, Mass.58 

“The house, its inmates, and its life, lay, 
dream-like, upon the edge of the little 
village.” 

Portrait of Samuel Taylor Coleridge ... 70 

The Return of the Fisherman.108 

“ A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 

A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 
Than Enoch.” 

The Breakers.132 

“ Storm such as drove her under 
moonless heavens 

Till hard upon the cry of 4 Breakers ’ 
came 

The crash of ruin.” 

The Flume near the Willey home in the 

White Mountains.154 

“A brook which tumbles over the preci¬ 
pice deep within the Notch.” 

9 








IFUustrattons 


Page 


Title Page of the first edition of Wee Willie 



Winkie . 

Portrait of Rudyard Kipling 


i94 / 


Falcon Crag—Derwentwater. A scene in the 
English Lake Region near Southey's home. 214 
Echo Lake and Eagle Cliff in the White 
Mountains near Franconia Notch . . . 234 

Bridal Veil Fall, Franconia Notch, White 
Mountains. The illustrations from the 
White Mountains are all taken very near 
the scene of The Ambitious Guest . . .254 

Wayside. Hawthorne’s home at Concord, 

near the road to Boston ..278 ; 

“ Never was poet or romancer more fitly 
shrined.” 


ro 




£be Stub? of fiction 































Ube Stubs of fftctton 


1. The Persons. The center of interest for the 
reader is usually in one person or two about whom 
seem to cling most of the incidents in the story, 
and whose career the reader watches closely. 
Other persons appear from time to time and 
attract close attention, but eventually they drop 
into the background, and seem only to have con¬ 
tributed to the interest in the principal character. 
As one reads, these persons come before his eyes, 
and he makes their acquaintance. He notes their 
personal appearance, their carriage, their man¬ 
ners, and their traits of character. They are his 
friends or he knows them and scorns them as they 
deserve. 

2. Character and Its Development. One 
who reads a story should carefully consider the 
character and emotions of the persons who are 
introduced. The author may at once make the 
reader acquainted with them by describing in detail 
their traits of character or he may leave these to 
be inferred by the conversation of the individual. 
In the latter case, the reader is left to his own re¬ 
sources in interpretation, and he may mistake the 
purpose of the author and may fail to understand 
fully the course of the story because of his failure 

13 



Gbe Stubs of aflctton 


to appreciate the characters of the persons. 
Again, the author allows his reader to infer by the 
action of his persons what their characters are. 
This leaves still more to be done by the reader. 
He must now not only critically weigh the action 
of the persons, but must inquire into their motives 
and judge the probable causes which lead them 
to act as they do. It is not usual that an author 
confines himself entirely to the one method of 
displaying character, but he uses the three as 
best suits his pleasure or as the plot compels. 

Frequently the story has as its distinctive pur¬ 
pose the development of character. The reader 
must then determine what was the original endow¬ 
ment of the person, what his traits and tendencies 
were. He must consider the various events of 
the story in their relation to this individual, must 
determine what effect each incident has had upon 
the person, and finally he must sum up in his own 
mind the various traits which go to make up the 
complete and final character as it appears at the 
close. 

3. Emotions Involved. In reading a work of 
fiction there are two groups of emotions involved: 
First, those of the persons who appear in the 
story, and second, those which arise in the mind 
of the reader. Sometimes these are similar, as 
when the sympathy of the reader is so fully 
aroused that he takes upon himself the hopes and 
aspirations, the fears and trials, of the character 


14 


Gbe Stu&E of fiction 


he studies about. Again, the emotions in the 
reader may be distinctly opposed to those of the 
persons in the story. Love or affection in the 
character in the book may arouse in the reader 
a feeling of dislike or even of fear and hatred. 
In studying any story it is desirable to distinguish 
between these two groups, as the power and skill 
of the author usually depend upon the success he 
has in arousing the feelings of the reader through 
the emotions of the persons in his story. 

4. The Plot. The author involves his character 
in a series of incidents more or less complicated, 
but all leading forward to a climax toward which 
the reader’s interest and sympathies point. The 
course of these incidents can not be fully fore¬ 
seen, and the author . frequently exhibits much 
skill in concealing the final outcome, while he 
excites the curiosity of the reader. At the proper 
time, the intricate incidents simplify, and fre¬ 
quently in one startling event the whole plot 
stands revealed. This denouement is at or near 
the end of the story, and after it little remains to 
be done by the writer but to gather up the scat¬ 
tered threads of minor events. Sometimes a story 
is begun with a series of incidents not in the least 
related to one another, and the reader carries 
these separate in his mind until they finally blend 
together and he can look back and see the har¬ 
mony of the plan. Many times there are subor¬ 
dinate series of incidents which in their outcome 


15 


<Tbe 5tu&B of fffctfott 


contribute to the general development of tne 
major plot. The originality and skill of a writer 
can be determined most easily by studying his 
handling of the plot of his story. It is most 
interesting to analyze the different incidents, to 
place them in correct relation to one another, and 
to trace the main thread of incident which cul¬ 
minates in the climax. It is sometimes surprising 
to find that in what appears to be a very compli¬ 
cated story the plot itself is exceedingly simple. 
The writer has expanded it, added various chains 
of incidents, and skillfully withheld the climax so 
that the reader at no time realizes how little is 
involved in the plot. 

5. The Scene. In a general sense this means 
the place where the story is located, although it 
must be understood more particularly as applying 
to the location of each incident. Many times the 
story lies wholly in one locality, to which no par¬ 
ticular attention is given by the author, but at 
other times the scene changes and is described 
with great care and skill. 

6. Local Coloring. There are various in¬ 
direct means of creating a vivid impression of the 
setting of a story. Description of the character¬ 
istic natural features of a region and reference to 
the peculiar traits of the persons, their customsj 
mannerisms or tricks of speech> dialect and cos¬ 
tumes are some of the devices for giving local 
coloring. Observe with what vivid definiteness 

16 


Gbe Stubg of afictfon 


the scene is suggested in these verses from Kip¬ 
ling’s Route Marchin’\ 

“We’re marchin’ on relief over Injia’s sunny plains, 

A little front o’ Christmas-time an’just be’ind the Rains. 
Ho ! get away, you bullock-man ! you’ve ’eard the bugle 
blowed— 

There’s a regiment a-comin’ down the Grand Trunk 
Road— 

“ With its best foot first, 

An’ the road a-slidin’ past, 

An’ every bloomin’campin’-ground exactly like the last; 
While the big drum says 
With its ‘ Rowdy-dowdy-dow ! ’ 

‘ Kiko kissywarsti, don’t you hamsher argy jow? ’ 

“Oh, there’s them Injian temples to admire when you 
see ; 

There’s the peacock round the corner an’ the monkey up 
the tree ; 

An’ there’s that rummy silver-grass a-wavin’ in the wind, 
An’ the old Grand Trunk a-trailin’ like a rifle-sling 
be’ind.” 

Note the reference to the Rains , which in western 
India continue from May until November, and the 
call to the bullock-man , who, slowly driving his 
cart, is an object commonly seen along traffic ways 
in India. The Grand Trunk Road is especially 
suggestive. Elsewhere Kipling says: “It runs 
straight, bearing without crowding India’s traffic 
for fifteen hundred miles—such a river of life as 
exists nowhere else in the world.” 

The words from the Hindustani, and the men¬ 
tion of the temples, the peacock, the monkey and 

i7 


Zbc StuDs of 3flctfon 


the silver-grass, intensify the coloring. Besides, 
the English private soldier, everywhere known as 
“Tommy Atkins/’ betrays himself as the speaker in 
the omission of his h’s , in the use of the mucL 
favored terms bloomin' and rummy , and in the note 
of dominance sounded in the third line of the 
first stanza. 

7. The Purpose. In many instances the main 
purpose of the story seems to be that of enter¬ 
tainment, but often fiction is used to teach a 
lesson, and in its garb are presented some of the 
great problems of life upon which the author 
passes his judgment. Often the story is meant to 
be a picture of a certain epoch or period in his¬ 
tory, and is a serious study of the manner of liv¬ 
ing and of the habits of the people at that time, 
and then the story becomes a most vivid histor¬ 
ical picture. The reader should always consider 
whether the story is one of serious import or 
whether its chief function is that of entertain¬ 
ment, for the manner of his reading will be gov¬ 
erned largely by the decision he makes. 

8. The Lesson. It is not always that the 
author succeeds in accomplishing the purpose 
with which he sets out, and the lesson which 
the story really teaches may be quite different 
from that which it is the evident intent of the 
author to present. But often the highest inspira¬ 
tion is given and the most effective lessons are 
taught by the masterful pen of the story teller. 


18 


Gbe (Sreat Stone face 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 




Stu&g of Ebe Great Stone jface 


The method for study suggested in the outline 
which you have just read in the preceding pages 
offers a method of studying any work of fiction, 
no matter what its length or its general character. 
You can apply it to a short story or to the most 
elaborate of novels. You must not expect, how¬ 
ever, that every story will furnish you abundant 
material for study in each one of the sections of 
the outline. Some stories are particularly strong 
in their descriptive power, and they make the 
scenes in which the story is laid very vivid. 
Others are dependent upon the intricacies and 
startling nature of the plot, and they subordinate 
scenes and character development to action. 
Again, not a few stories are written merely for the 
purpose of illustrating certain phases of human 
character or of displaying the development of 
character in an individual. It is to the last men¬ 
tioned class that The Great Stone Face most 
properly belongs. This you will perceive in the 
discussion of the story, which you will find printed 
at the end of the story in this volume. 

However, before attempting to apply this method 
you should read the story carefully from beginning 
to end, without any thought of formal study. Let 


21 



XLbe 0rcat Stone 3face 


your object be to gain a general impression of the 
selection, a comprehensive idea of it as a whole. 
Your attitude of mind should be, as far as possi¬ 
ble, that of sympathy and receptivity. 

Notwithstanding its remarkable simplicity of 
style, this narrative is not a mere child’s tale, to 
be lightly regarded and cursorily read. On the 
contrary, it is one of the most profoundly signifi¬ 
cant and truth-inspired works of idealistic fiction. 
You can afford to reflect upon it seriously, for it 
contains much of profit even for those who have 
read widely. 

In your first reading try to fix in mind dis¬ 
tinctly each character as he appears in the story, 
each incident as it transpires and all references to 
natural phenomena. Allow nothing to escape 
you, for in any well constructed tale there is unity 
and interdependence among all the parts. On the 
definiteness of the impressions which you gain in 
your first reading depends, to a great extent, the 
readiness with which subsequently you can learn 
the full significance of the story. 

While it is not at all necessary that before you 
begin reading the story you should know much 
about the character of Hawthorne, yet if you wish 
to become somewhat acquainted with him before 
reading, you have but to turn to page 279 of this 
volume, where you will find a characterization of 
Hawthorne that at least will dispose you to be 
friendly toward his writings. 


22 


XTbe Great Stone face 


One afternoon, when the sun was going 
down, a mother and her little boy sat at the 
door of their cottage, talking about the Great 
Stone Face. They had but to lift their eyes, 
and there it was plainly to be seen, though 
miles away, with the sunshine brightening all 
its features. 

And what was the Great Stone Face ? 

Embosomed amongst a family of lofty 
mountains, there was a valley so spacious 
that it contained many thousand inhabitants. 
Some of these good people dwelt in log-huts, 
with the black forest all around them, on the 
steep and difficult hill-sides. Others had their 
homes in comfortable farm-houses, and culti¬ 
vated the rich soil on the gentle slopes or level 
surfaces of the valley. Others, again, were 
congregated into populous villages, where 
some wild, highland rivulet, tumbling down 
from its birthplace in the upper mountain 
region, had been caught and tamed by human 
cunning, and compelled to turn the machinery 
of cotton-factories. The inhabitants of this 

23 



tTbe (Breat Stone aface 


valley, in short, were numerous, and of many 
modes of life. But all of them, grown people 
and children, had a kind of familiarity with the 
Great Stone Face, although some possessed 
the gift of distinguishing this grand natural 
phenomenon more perfectly than many of 
their neighbors. 

The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of 
Nature in her mood of majestic playfulness, 
formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain 
by some immense rocks, which had been thrown 
together in such a position as, when viewed 
at a proper distance, precisely to resemble the 
features of a human countenance. It seemed 
as if an enormous yiant, or a Titan, 1 had sculp¬ 
tured his own likeness on the precipice. There 
was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred 
feet in height; the nose, with its long bridge; 
and the vast lips, which, if they could have 
spoken, would have rolled their thunder ac¬ 
cents from one end of the valley to the other. 
True it is, that if the spectator approached too 
near, he lost the outline of the gigantic visage, 
and could discern only a heap of ponderous 
and gigantic rocks, piled in chaotic ruin one 
upon another. Retracing his steps, however^ 

i. In Greek mythology, one o. the giant children of Uranus (Heaven) 
and Gaea (Earth). 


2 4 



Gbe <5reat Stone fface 

the wondrous features would again be seen; 
and the farther he withdrew from them, the 
more like a human face, with all its original 
divinity intact, did they appear; until, as it 
grew dim in the distance, with the clouds and 
glorified vapor of the mountains clustering 
about it, the Great Stone Face seemed posi¬ 
tively to be alive. 

It was a happy lot for children to grow 
up to manhood or womanhood with the Great 
Stone Face before their eyes, for all the 
features were noble, and the expression was 
at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow 
of a vast, warm heart, that embraced all man¬ 
kind in its affections, and had room for more. 
It was an education only to look at it. Ac¬ 
cording to the belief of many people, the 
valley owed much of its fertility to this benign 
aspect that was continually beaming over it, 
illuminating the clouds, and infusing its ten¬ 
derness into the sunshine. 

As we began with saying, a mother and her 
little boy sat at their cottage-door, gazing at 
the Great Stone Face, and talking about it. 
The child’s name was Ernest. 

“Mother,” said he, while the Titanic vis¬ 
age smiled on him, “ I wish that it could 
speak, for it looks so very kindly that its 

25 


XLbc Great Stone Jface 


voice must needs be pleasant. If I were to 
see a man with such a face, I should love him 
dearly. ” 

“If an old prophecy should come to pass,” 
answered his mother, “we may see a man, 
some time or other, with exactly such a face 
as that. ’ ’ 

4 ‘ What prophecy do you mean, dear 
mother?” eagerly inquired Ernest. “Pray 
tell me all about it! ” 

So his mother told him a story that her own 
mother had told to her, when she herself was 
younger than little Ernest; a story, not of 
things that were past, but of what was yet to 
come; a story, nevertheless, so very old, that 
even the Indians, who formerly inhabited this 
valley, had heard it from their forefathers, to 
whom, as they affirmed, it had been mur¬ 
mured by the mountain streams, and whis¬ 
pered by the wind among the tree-tops. The 
purport was, that, at some future day, a child 
should be born hereabouts, who was destined 
to become the greatest and noblest personage 
of his time, and whose countenance, in man¬ 
hood, should bear an exact resemblance to 
the Great Stone Face. Not a few old-fash¬ 
ioned people, and young ones likewise, in the 
ardor of their hopes, still cherished an endur- 
26 


Gbe Great Stone iface 


ing faith in this old prophecy. But others, 
who had seen more of the world, had watched 
and waited till they were weary, and had be¬ 
held no man with such a face, nor any man 
that proved to be much greater or nobler than 
his neighbors, concluded it to be nothing but 
an idle tale. At all events, the great man of 
the prophecy had not yet appeared. 

“O mother, dear mother ! ” cried Ernest, 
clapping his hands above his head, “I do 
hope that I shall live to see him ! ’ * 

His mother was an affectionate and thought¬ 
ful woman, and felt that it was wisest not to 
discourage the generous hopes of her little 
boy. So she only said to him, “ perhaps you 
may.” 

And Ernest never forgot the story that his 
mother told him. It was always in his mind, 
whenever he looked upon the Great Stone 
Face. He spent his childhood in the log cot¬ 
tage where he was born, and was dutiful to 
his mother, and helpful to her in many things, 
assisting her much with his little hands, and 
more with his loving heart. In this manner, 
from a happy yet often pensive child, he grew 
up to be a mild, quiet, unobstrusive boy, and 
sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with 
more intelligence brightening his aspect than 
27 


Gbe ©reat Stone 3face 


is seen in many lads who have been taught 
at famous schools. Yet Ernest had had no 
teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face 
became one to him. When the toil of the 
day was over, he would gaze at it for hours, 
until he began to imagine that those vast fea¬ 
tures recognized him, and gave him a smile 
of kindness and encouragement, responsive to 
his own look of veneration. We must not 
take upon us to affirm that this was a mistake, 
although the Face may have looked no more 
kindly at Ernest than at all the world besides. 
But the secret was that the boy’s tender and 
confiding simplicity discerned what other peo¬ 
ple could not see; and thus the love, which 
was meant for all, became his peculiar portion. 

About this time there went a rumor through¬ 
out the valley, that the great man, foretold 
from ages long ago, who was to bear a resem¬ 
blance to the Great Stone Face, had appeared 
at last. It seems that, many years before, a 
young man had migrated from the valley and 
settled at a distant seaport, where, after get¬ 
ting together a little money, he had set up as 
a shopkeeper. His name — but I could never 
learn whether it was his real one, or a nick¬ 
name that had grown out of his habits and 
success in life — was Gathergold. Being 
28' 



OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS, WHITE MOUNTAINS, 

N. H. 






























































. 


































































































































Gbe Great Stone aface 


shrewd and active, and endowed by Providence 
with that inscrutable faculty which develops 
itself in what the world calls luck, he became 
an exceedingly rich merchant, and owner of a 
whole fleet of bulky-bottomed ships. All the 
countries of the globe appeared to join hands 
for the mere purpose of adding heap after 
heap to the mountainous accumulation of this 
one man’s wealth. The cold regions of the 
north, almost within the gloom and shadow of 
the Arctic Circle, sent him their tribute in 
the shape of furs; hot Africa sifted for him the 
golden sands of her rivers, and gathered up 
the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of 
the forests; the East came bringing him the 
rich shawls, and spices, and teas, and the 
effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming 
purity of large pearls. The ocean, not to be 
behindhand with the earth, yielded up her 
mighty whales, that Mr. Gathergold might sell 
their oil, and make a profit on it. Be the 
original commodity what it might, it was gold 
within his grasp. It might be said of him, 
as of Midas in the fable, that whatever he 
touched with his finger immediately glistened, 
and grew yellow, and was changed at once 
into sterling metal, or, which suited him still 
better, into piles of coin. And, when Mr. 

29 


Gbe <3reat Stone jface 


Gathergold had become so very rich that it 
would have taken him a hundred years only to 
count his wealth, he bethought himself of his 
native valley, and resolved to go back thither, 
and end his days where he was born. With 
this purpose in view, he sent a skillful archi¬ 
tect to build him such a palace as should be 
fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in. 

As I have said above, it had already been 
rumored in the valley that Mr. Gathergold 
had turned out to be the prophetic personage 
so long and vainly looked for, and that his 
visage was the perfect and undeniable simili¬ 
tude of the Great Stone Face. People were 
the more ready to believe that this must needs 
be the fact, when they beheld the splendid 
edifice that rose, as if by enchantment, on the 
site of his father’s old weather-beaten farm¬ 
house. The exterior was of marble, so daz- 
zlingly white that it seemed as though the whole 
structure might melt away in the sunshine, 
like those humbler ones which Mr. Gather¬ 
gold, in his young play-days, before his fingers 
were gifted with the touch of transmutation, 
had been accustomed to build of snow. It 
had a richly ornamented portico, supported 
by tall pillars, beneath which was a lofty door, 
studded with silver knobs, and made of a kind 
3° 


Gbe <5reat Stone fface 


of variegated wood that had been brought from 
beyond the sea. The windows, from the 
floor to the ceiling of each stately apartment, 
were composed, respectively, of but one enor¬ 
mous pane of glass, so transparently pure that 
it was said to be a finer medium than even the 
vacant atmosphere. Hardly anybody had 
been permitted to see the interior of this 
palace; but it was reported, and with good 
semblance of truth, to be far more gorgeous 
than the outside, insomuch that whatever was 
iron or brass in other houses was silver or gold 
in this; and Mr. Gathergold’s bedchamber, 
especially, made such a glittering appearance 
that no ordinary man would have been able to 
close his eyes there. But, on the other hand, 
Mr. Gathergold was now so inured to wealth, 
that perhaps he could not have closed his eyes 
unless where the gleam of it was certain to 
find its way beneath his eyelids. 

In due time, the mansion was finished; next 
came the upholsterers, with magnificent furni¬ 
ture; then, a whole troop of black and white 
servants, the harbingers of Mr. Gathergold, 
who, in his own majestic person, was ex¬ 
pected to arrive at sunset. Our friend Ernest, 
meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the 
idea that the great man, the noble man. the 
3 1 


Gbe <3reat Stone fface 


man of prophecy, after so many ages of delay, 
was at length to be made manifest to his 
native valley. He knew, boy as he was, that 
there were a thousand ways in which Mr. 
Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might trans¬ 
form himself into an angel of beneficence, and 
assume a control over human affairs as wide 
and benignant as the smile of the Great Stone 
Face. Full of faith and hope, Ernest doubted 
not that what the people said was true, and 
that now he was to behold the living likeness 
of those wondrous features on the mountain¬ 
side. While the boy was still gazing up the 
valley, and fancying, as he always did, that 
the Great Stone Face returned his gaze and 
looked kindly at him, the rumbling of wheels 
was heard, approaching swiftly along the 
winding road. 

“Here he comes !” cried a group of people 
who were assembled to witness the arrival. 
“ Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold ! ” 

A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed 
round the turn of the road. Within it, thrust 
partly out of the window, appeared the physi¬ 
ognomy of the old man, with a skin as yellow 
as if his own Midas-hand had transmuted it. 
He had a low forehead, small, sharp eyes, 
puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, 
3 2 


Gbe <5reat Stone jFace 


and very thin lips, which he made still thinner 
by pressing them forcibly together. 

* ‘ The very image of the Great Stone Face! ” 
shouted the people. “ Sure enough, the old 
prophecy is true; and here we have the great 
man come, at last! ” 

And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they 
seemed actually to believe that here was the 
likeness which they spoke of. By the road¬ 
side there chanced to be an old beggar-woman 
and two little beggar-children, stragglers from 
some far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled 
onward, held out their hands and lifted up 
their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching 
charity. A yellow claw — the very same that 
had clawed together so much wealth — poked 
itself out of the coach window, and dropt 
some copper coins upon the ground; so that, 
though the great man’s name seems to have 
been Gathergold, he might just as suitably have 
been nicknamed Scattercopper. Still, never¬ 
theless, with an earnest shout, and evidently 
with as much good faith as ever, the people 
bellowed,— 

“He is the very image of the Great Stone 
Face ! ” 

But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled 
shrewdness of that sordid visage, and gazed 
33 


Gbe Great Stone aface 


up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, 
gilded by the last sunbeams, he could still dis¬ 
tinguish those glorious features which had 
impressed themselves into his soul. Their 
aspect cheered him. What did the benign 
lips seem to say ? 

“He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the 
man will come ! ’ ’ 

The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be 
a boy. He had grown to be a young man 
now. He attracted little notice from the other 
inhabitants of the valley; for they saw nothing 
remarkable in his way of life, save that, when 
the labor of the day was over, he still loved 
to go apart and gaze and meditate upon the 
Great Stone Face. According to their idea 
of the matter, it was a folly, indeed, but par¬ 
donable, inasmuch as Ernest was industrious, 
kind, and neighborly, and neglected no duty 
for the sake of indulging this idle habit. They 
knew not that the Great Stone Face had be¬ 
come a teacher to him, and that the sentiment 
which was expressed in it would enlarge the 
young man’s heart, and fill it with wider and 
deeper sympathies than other hearts. They 
knew not that thence would come a better 
wisdom than could be learned from books, 
and a better life than could be moulded on the 
34 


Gbe (Steat Stone Jface 


defaced example of other human lives. Neither 
did Ernest know that the thoughts and affec¬ 
tions which came to him so naturally, in the 
fields and at the fireside, and wherever he 
communed with himself, were of a higher tone 
than those which all men shared with him. 
A simple soul,— simple as when his mother 
first taught him the old prophecy,— he beheld 
the marvelous features beaming adown the 
valley, and still wondered that their human 
counterpart was so long in making his appear¬ 
ance. 

By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead 
and buried; and the oddest part of the matter 
was, that his wealth, which was the body and 
spirit of his existence, had disappeared before 
his death, leaving nothing of him but a living 
skeleton, covered over with a wrinkled, yel¬ 
low skin. Since the melting away of his gold, 
it had been very generally conceded that there 
was no such striking resemblance, after all, 
betwixt the ignoble features of the ruined 
merchant and that majestic face upon the 
mountain-side. So the people ceased to honor 
him during his lifetime, and quietly consigned 
him to forgetfulness after his decease. Once 
in a while, it is true, his memory was brought 
up in connection with the magnificent palace 
35 


Gbe Great Stone aface 


which he had built, and which had long ago 
been turned into a hotel for the accommo¬ 
dation of strangers, multitudes of whom came, 
every summer, to visit that famous natural 
curiosity, the Great Stone Face. Thus, Mr. 
Gathergold being discredited and thrown into 
the shade, the man of prophecy was yet to 
come. 

It so happened that a native-born son of the 
valley, many years before, had enlisted as a 
soldier, and, after a great deal of hard fight¬ 
ing, had now become an illustrious com¬ 
mander. Whatever he may be called in his¬ 
tory, he was known in camps and on the 
battle-field under the nickname of old Blood- 
and-Thunder. This war-worn veteran, being 
now infirm with age and wounds, and weary 
of the turmoil of a military life, and of the roll 
of the drum and the clangor of the trumpet, 
that had so long been ringing in his ears, had 
lately signified a purpose of returning to his 
native valley, hoping to find repose where he 
remembered to have left it. The inhabitants, 
his old neighbors and their grown-up children, 
were resolved to welcome the renowned war¬ 
rior with a salute of cannon and public din¬ 
ner; and all the more enthusiastically, it being 
affirmed that now, at last, the likeness of the 
36 


XLbc Great Stone fface 

Great Stone Face had actually appeared. An 
aid-de-camp of Old Blood-and-Thunder, trav¬ 
eling through the valley, was said to have 
been struck with the resemblance. Moreover 
the schoolmates and early acquaintances of 
the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, 
to the best of their recollection, the aforesaid 
general had been exceedingly like the majestic 
image, even when a boy, only that the idea 
had never occurred to them at that period. 
Great, therefore, was the excitement through¬ 
out the valley; and many people, who had 
never once thought of glancing at the Great 
Stone Face for years before, now spent their 
time in gazing at it, for the sake of knowing 
exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder 
looked. 

On the day of the great festival, Ernest, 
with all the other people of the valley, left 
his work, and proceeded to the spot where 
the sylvan banquet was prepared. As he 
approached, the loud voice of the Rev. Dr. 
Battleblast was heard, beseeching a blessing 
on the good things set before them, and on 
the distinguished friend of peace in whose 
honor they were assembled. The tables were 
arranged in a cleared space of the woods, shut 
in by the surrounding trees, except where a 
37 


Gbe Great Stone fface 


vista opened eastward, and afforded a distant 
view r of the Great Stone Face. Over the gen¬ 
eral’s chair, which was a relic from the home 
of Washington, there was an arch of verdant 
boughs, with the laurel profusely intermixed, 
and surmounted by his country’s banner, be¬ 
neath which he had won his victories. Our 
friend Ernest raised himself on his tiptoes, in 
hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated guest; 
but there was a mighty crowd about the tables 
anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and 
to catch any word that might fall from the 
general in reply; and a volunteer company, 
doing duty as a guard, pricked ruthlessly with 
their bayonets at any particularly quiet person 
among the throng. So Ernest, being of an 
unobtrusive character, was thrust quite into 
the background, where he could see no more 
of Old Blood-and-Thunder’s physiognomy 
than if it had been still blazing on the battle¬ 
field. To console himself, he turned toward 
the Great Stone Face, which, like a faithful 
and long-remembered friend, looked back and 
smiled upon him through the vista of the for¬ 
est. Meantime, however, he could overhear 
the remarks of various individuals, who were 
comparing the features of the hero with the 
face on the distant mountain-side. 

38 


Gbe ©teat Stone jface 


” ’Tis the same face, to a hair! ” cried one 
man, cutting a caper for joy. 

“Wonderfully like, that’s a fact!” re¬ 
sponded another. 

4 ‘ Like ! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thun- 
der himself, in a monstrous looking-glass ! ” 
cried a third. “And why not? He’s the 
greatest man of this or any other age, beyond 
a doubt. ” 

And then all three of the speakers gave a 
great shout, which communicated electricity 
to the crowd, and called forth a roar from a 
thousand voices, that went reverberating for 
miles among the mountains, until you might 
have supposed that the Great Stone Face had 
poured its thunder-breath into the cry. All 
these comments, and this vast enthusiasm, 
served the more to interest our friend; nor 
did he think of questioning that now, at 
length, the mountain-visage had found its 
human counterpart. It is true, Ernest had 
imagined that this long-looked-for personage 
would appear in the character of a man of 
peace, uttering wisdom, and doing good, and 
making people happy. But, taking an habit¬ 
ual breadth of view, with all his simplicity, he 
contended that Providence should choose its 
own method of blessing mankind, and could 
39 


tTbe Great Stone aface 


conceive that this great end might be effected 
even by a warrior and a bloody sword, should 
inscrutable wisdom see fit to order matters so. 

“The general! the general! ” was now the 
cry. “ Hush ! silence ! Old Blood-and-Thun- 
der’s going to make a speech.” 

Even so; for the cloth being removed, the 
general’s health had been drunk, amid shouts 
of applause, and he now stood upon his feet 
to thank the company. Ernest saw him. 
There he was, over the shoulders of the 
crowd, from the two glittering epaulets and 
embroidered collar upward, beneath the arch 
of green boughs with intertwined laurel, and 
the banner drooping as if to shade his brow! 
And there, too, visible in the same glance, 
through the vista of the forest, appeared the 
Great Stone Face ! And was there, indeed, 
such a resemblance as the crowd had testified ? 
Alas, Ernest could not recognize it! He be¬ 
held a war-worn and weather-beaten counte¬ 
nance, full of energy, and expressive of an 
iron will; but the gentle wisdom, the deep, 
broad, tender sympathies, were altogether 
wanting in Old Blood-and-Thunder’s visage; 
and even if the Great Stone Face had assumed 
his look of stern command, the milder traits 
would still have tempered it. 

40 


Gbe <3reat Stone fface 


“ This is not the man of prophecy,” sighed 
Ernest to himself, as he made his way out of 
the throng. “And must the world wait 
longer yet ? ” 

The mists had congregated about the dis¬ 
tant mountain-side, and there were seen the 
grand and awful features of the Great Stone 
Face, awful but benignant, as if a mighty 
angel were sitting among the hills, and enrob¬ 
ing himself in a cloud-vesture of gold and pur¬ 
ple. As he looked, Ernest could hardly believe 
but that a smile beamed over the whole vis¬ 
age, with a radiance still brightening, although 
without motion of the lips. It was probably 
the effect of the western sunshine, melting 
through the thinly diffused vapors that had 
swept between him and the object that he 
gazed at. But — as it always did—the 
aspect of his marvelous friend made Ernest 
as hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain. 

“ Fear not, Ernest,” said his heart, even as 
if the Great Face were whispering him,— 
“fear not, Ernest; he will come.” 

More years sped swiftly and tranquilly 
away. Ernest still dwelt in his native val¬ 
ley, and was now a man of middle age. By 
imperceptible degrees, he had become known 
among the people. Now, as heretofore, he 
4i 


TLbc ®veat Stone jface 


labored for his bread, and was the same sim¬ 
ple-hearted man that he had always been. 
But he had thought and felt so much, he had 
given so many of the best hours of his life to 
unworldly hopes for some great good to man¬ 
kind, that it seemed as though he had been 
talking with the angels, and had imbibed a 
portion of their wisdom unawares. It was 
visible in the calm and well-considered benefi¬ 
cence of his daily life, the quiet stream of 
which had made a wide, green margin all 
along its course. Not a day passed by, that 
the world was not the better because this man, 
humble as he was, had lived. He never 
stepped aside from his own path, yet would 
always reach a blessing to his neighbor. Al¬ 
most involuntarily, too, he had become a 
preacher. The pure and high simplicity of his 
thought, which, as one of its manifestations, 
took shape in the good deeds that dropped 
silently from his hand, flowed also forth in 
speech. He uttered truths that wrought upon 
and moulded the lives of those who heard him. 
His auditors, it may be, never suspected that 
Ernest, their own neighbor and familiar friend, 
was more than an ordinary man; least of all 
did Ernest himself suspect it; but, inevitably 
as the murmur of a rivulet, came thoughts out 



GREAT STONE FACE, DELLS OF THE ST. CROIX, WIS. 


















































Zbe <5reat Stone jface 


of his mouth that no other human lips had 
spoken. 

When the people’s minds had had a little 
time to cool, they were ready enough to ac¬ 
knowledge their mistake in imagining a simi¬ 
larity between General Blood-and-Thunder’s 
truculent physiognomy and the benign visage 
on the mountain-side. But now, again, there 
were reports and many paragraphs in the news¬ 
papers, affirming that the likeness of the Great 
Stone Face had appeared upon the broad 
shoulders of a certain eminent statesman. 
He, like Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and- 
Thunder, was a native of the valley, but had 
left it in his early days, and taken up the 
trades of law and politics. Instead of the 
rich man’s wealth and the warrior’s sword, 
he had but a tongue, and it was mightier than 
both together. So wonderfully eloquent was 
he, that whatever he might choose to say, his 
auditors had no choice but to believe him; 
wrong looked like right, and right like wrong; 
for when it pleased him, he could make a 
kind of illuminated fog with his mere breath, 
and obscure the natural daylight with it. His 
tongue, indeed, was a magic instrument: some¬ 
times it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes 
it warbled like the sweetest music. It was 
43 


Zbc <5reat Stone 3face 


the blast of war, — the song of peace; and it 
seemed to have a heart in it, when there was 
no such matter. In good truth, he was a won¬ 
drous man; and when his tongue had acquired 
him all other imaginable success, — when it 
had been heard in halls of state, and in the 
courts of princes and potentates,—after it had 
made him known all over the world, even as 
a voice crying from shore to shore, — it finally 
persuaded his countrymen to select him for 
the Presidency. Before this time, — indeed, 
as soon as he began to grow celebrated, — his 
admirers had found out the resemblance be¬ 
tween him and the Great Stone Face; and so 
much were they struck by it, that throughout 
the country this distinguished gentleman was 
known by the name of Old Stony Phiz. The 
phrase was considered as giving a highly favor¬ 
able aspect to his political prospects; for, as is 
likewise the case with the Popedom, nobody 
ever becomes President without taking a name 
other than his own. 

While his friends were doing their best to 
make him President, Old Stony Phiz, as he 
was called, set out on a visit to the valley 
where he was born. Of course, he had no 
other object than to shake hands with his fel¬ 
low-citizens, and neither thought nor cared 
44 


Gbe ©reat Stone aFace 


about any effect which his progress through 
the country might have upon the election. 
Magnificent preparations were made to receive 
the illustrious statesman; a cavalcade of horse¬ 
men set forth to meet him at the boundary 
line of the State, and all the people left their 
business and gathered along the wayside to see 
him pass. Among these was Ernest. Though 
more than once disappointed, as we have seen, 
he had such a hopeful and confiding nature, 
that he was always ready to believe in what¬ 
ever seemed beautiful and good. He kept 
his heart continually open, and thus was sure 
to catch the blessing from on high when it 
should come. So now again, as buoyantly as 
ever, he went forth to behold the likeness of 
the Great Stone Face. 

The cavalcade came prancing along the 
road, with a great clattering of hoofs and a 
mighty cloud of dust, which rose up so dense 
and high that the visage of the mountain-side 
was completely hidden from Ernest’s eyes. 
All the great men of the neighborhood were 
there on horseback; militia officers, in uniform; 
the member of Congress; the sheriff of the 
county; the editors of newspapers; and many 
a farmer, too, had mounted his patient steed, 
with his Sunday coat upon his back. It really 
45 


Gbe <3reat Stone jface 


was a very brilliant spectacle, especially as 
there were numerous banners flaunting over 
the cavalcade, on some of which were gor¬ 
geous portraits of the illustrious statesman and 
the Great Stone Face, smiling familiarly at one 
another, like two brothers. If the pictures 
were to be trusted, the mutual resemblance, 
it must be confessed, was marvelous. We 
must not forget to mention that there was a 
band of music, which made the echoes of the 
mountains ring and reverberate with the loud 
triumph of its strains; so that airy and soul- 
thrilling melodies broke out among all the 
heights and hollows, as if every nook of his 
native valley had found a voice, to welcome 
the distinguished guest. But the grandest 
effect was when the far-off mountain precipice 
flung back the music; for then the Great Stone 
Face itself seemed to be swelling the trium¬ 
phant chorus, in acknowledgment that, at 
length, the man of prophecy was come. 

All this while the people were throwing up 
their hats and shouting, with enthusiasm so 
contagious that the heart of Ernest kindled 
up, and he likewise threw up his hat, and 
shouted, as loudly as the loudest, “ Huzza for 
the great man ! Huzza for Old Stony Phiz ! ” 
But as yet he had not seen him. 

46 


Gbe Great Stone fface 


“ Here he is, now ! ” cried those who stood 
near Ernest. “There! There! Look at 
Old Stony Phiz and then at the Old Man of 
the Mountain, and see if they are not as like 
as two twin brothers ! ” 

In the midst of all this gallant array came 
an open barouche, drawn by four white horses; 
and in the barouche, with his massive head 
uncovered, sat the illustrious statesman, Old 
Stony Phiz himself. 

“Confess it,” said one of Ernest’s neigh¬ 
bors to him, “the Great Stone Face has met 
its match at last! ” 

Now, it must be owned that, at his first 
glimpse of the countenance which was bowing 
and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did 
fancy that there was a resemblance between 
it and the old familiar face upon the mountain¬ 
side. The brow, with its massive depth and 
loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, 
were boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emu¬ 
lation of a more than heroic, of a Titanic, 
model. But the sublimity and stateliness, 
the grand expression of a divine sympathy, that 
illuminated the mountain visage and ethereal- 
ized its ponderous granite substance into spirit, 
might here be sought in vain. Something had 
been originally left out, or had departed. And 
47 


Gbe (Sreat Stone aface 


therefore the marvelously gifted statesman 
had always a weary gloom in the deep cav¬ 
erns of his eyes, as of a child that has out¬ 
grown its playthings, or a man of mighty fac¬ 
ulties and little aims, whose life, with all its 
high performances, was vague and empty, 
because no high purpose had endowed it with 
reality. 

Still, Ernest’s neighbor was thrusting his 
elbow into his side, and pressing him for 
an answer. 

* ‘ Confess! confess ! Is not he the very 
picture of your Old Man of the Mountain?” 

“No!” said Ernest, bluntly, “I see little 
or no likeness. ” 

“Then so much the worse for the Great 
Stone Face!” answered his neighbor; and 
again he set up a shout for Old Stony 
Phiz. 

But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and 
almost despondent: for this was the saddest 
of his disappointments, to behold a man who 
might have fulfilled the prophecy, and had not 
willed to do so. Meantime, the cavalcade, 
the banners, the music, and the barouches 
swept past him, with the vociferous crowd in 
the rear, leaving the dust to settle down, and 
the Great Stone Face to be revealed again^ 
48 


Gbe 0reat Stone jface 

with the grandeur that it had v/orn for untold 
centuries. 

“ Lo, here I am, Ernest ! ” the benign lips 
seemed to say. ‘ ‘ I have waited longer than 
thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the 
man will come.” 

The years hurried onward, treading in their 
haste on one another’s heels. And now they 
began to bring white hairs, and scatter them 
over the head of Ernest; they made reverend 
wrinkles across his forehead, and furrows in 
his cheeks. He was an aged man. But not 
in vain had he grown old: more than the white 
hairs on his head were the sage thoughts in 
his mind; his wrinkles and furrows were in¬ 
scriptions that Time had graved, and in which 
he had written legends of wisdom that had 
been tested by the tenor of a life. And 
Ernest had ceased to be obscure. Unsought 
for, undesired, had come the fame which so 
many seek, and made him known in the great 
world, beyond the limits of the valley in which 
he had dwelt so quietly. College professors, 
and even the active men of cities, came from 
far to see and converse with Ernest; for the 
report had gone abroad that this simple hus¬ 
bandman had ideas unlike those of other men, 
not gained from books, but of a higher tone,— 
49 


Gbe Great Stone fface 


a tranquil and familiar majesty, as if he had 
been talking with the angels as his daily 
friends. Whether it were sage, statesman, or 
philanthropist, Ernest received these visitors 
with the gentle sincerity that had character¬ 
ized him from boyhood, and spoke freely with 
them of whatever came uppermost, or lay 
deepest in his heart or their own. While 
they talked together, his face would kindle, 
unawares, and shine upon them, as with a 
mild evening light. Pensive with the fullness 
of such discourse, his guests took leave and 
went their way; and passing up the valley, 
paused to look at the Great Stone Face, imag¬ 
ining that they had seen its likeness in a 
human countenance, but could not remember 
where. 

While Ernest had been growing up and 
growing old, a bountiful Providence had 
granted a new poet to this earth. He, like¬ 
wise, was a native of the valley, but had spent 
the greater part of his life at a distance from 
that romantic region, pouring out his sweet 
music amid the bustle and din of cities. 
Often, however, did the mountains which had 
been familiar to him in his childhood lift their 
snowy peaks into the clear atmosphere of his 
poetry. Neither was the Great Stone Face 
5o 


ZDc ©teat Stone aface 

forgotten, for the poet had celebrated it in an 
ode, which was grand enough to have been 
uttered by its own majestic lips. This man of 
genius, we may say, had come down from 
heaven with wonderful endowments. If he 
sang of a mountain, the eyes of all mankind 
beheld a mightier grandeur reposing on its 
breast, or soaring to its summit, than had be¬ 
fore been seen there. If his theme were a 
lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been 
thrown over it, to gleam forever on its surface. 
If it were the vast old sea, even the deep 
immensity of its dread bosom seemed to swell 
the higher, as if moved by the emotions of the 
song. Thus the world assumed another and 
a better aspect from the hour that the poet 
blessed it with his happy eyes. The Creator 
had bestowed him, as the last best touch to 
his own handiwork. Creation was not finished 
till the poet came to interpret, and so com¬ 
plete it. 

The effect was no less high and beautiful, 
when his human brethren were the subject of 
his verse. The man or woman, sordid with 
the common dust of life, who crossed his daily 
path, and the little child who played in it, 
were glorified if he beheld them in his mood 
of poetic faith. He showed the golden links 
5i 


Gbe Great Stone jFace 


of the great chain that intertwined them with 
an angelic kindred; he brought out the hidden 
traits of a celestial birth that made them wor¬ 
thy of such kin. Some, indeed, there were, 
who thought to show the soundness of their 
judgment by affirming that all the beauty and 
dignity of the natural world existed only in 
the poet’s fancy. Let such men speak for 
themselves, who undoubtedly appear to have 
been spawned forth by Nature with a con¬ 
temptuous bitterness; she having plastered 
them up out of her refuse stuff, after all the 
swine were made. As respects all things else, 
the poet’s ideal was the truest truth. 

The songs of this poet found their way to 
Ernest. He read them after his customary 
toil, seated on the bench before his cottage- 
door, where for such a length of time he had 
filled his repose with thought, by gazing at the 
Great Stone Face. And now as he read stan¬ 
zas that caused the soul to thrill within him, 
he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance 
beaming on him so benignantly. 

“ O majestic friend,” he murmured, address¬ 
ing the Great Stone Face, “ is not this man 
worthy to resemble thee ? ” 

The Face seemed to smile, but answered 
not a word. 


5 2 


Gbe ©reat Stone fface 


Now it happened that the poet, though he 
dwelt so far away, had not only heard of 
Ernest, but had meditated much upon his 
character, until he deemed nothing so desira¬ 
ble as to meet this man, whose untaught wis¬ 
dom walked hand in hand with the noble 
simplicity of his life. One summer morning, 
therefore, he took passage by the railroad, 
and, in the decline of the afternoon, alighted 
from the cars at no great distance from 
Ernest’s cottage. The great hotel, which had 
formerly been the palace of Mr. Gathergold, 
was close at hand, but the poet, with his car¬ 
pet bag on his arm, inquired at once where 
Ernest dwelt, and was resolved to be accepted 
as his guest. 

Approaching the door, he there found the 
good old man, holding a volume in his hand, 
which alternately he read, and then, with a 
finger between the leaves, looked lovingly at 
the Great Stone Face. 

‘'Good evening,” said the poet. “Can 
you give a traveler a night’s lodging? ” 

“Willingly,” answered Ernest; and then 
he added, smiling, “Methinks I never saw 
the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a 
stranger.” 

The poet sat down on the bench beside 
53 


XLb e Great Stone 3Face 

him, and he and Ernest talked together. 
Often had the poet held intercourse with the 
wittiest and the wisest, but never before with 
a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and feel¬ 
ings gushed up with such a natural freedom, 
and who made great truths so familiar by his 
simple utterance of them. Angels, as had 
been so often said, seemed to have wrought 
with him at his labor in the fields; angels 
seemed to have sat with him by the fireside; 
and, dwelling with angels as friend with 
friends, he had imbibed the sublimity of their 
ideas, and imbued it with the sweet and lowly 
charm of household words. So thought the 
poet. And Ernest, on the other hand, was 
moved and agitated by the living images 
which the poet flung out of his mind, and 
which peopled all the air about the cottage- 
door with shapes of beauty, both gay and pen¬ 
sive. The sympathies of these two men in¬ 
structed them with a profounder sense than 
either could have attained alone. Their minds 
accorded into one strain, and made delightful 
music which neither of them could have 
claimed as all his own, nor distinguished his 
own share from the other’s. They led one 
another, as it were, into a high pavilion of 
their thoughts, so remote, and hitherto so 
54 


ftbe ©reat Stone face 

dim, that they had never entered it before, 
and so beautiful that they desired to be there 
always. 

As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined 
that the Great Stone Face was bending forward 
to listen, too. He gazed earnestly into the 
poet’s glowing eyes. 

“Who are you, my strangely gifted guest? ” 
he said. 

The poet laid his finger on the volume that 
Ernest had been reading. 

“You have read these poems,” said he. 
“You know me, then, —for I wrote them.” 

Again, and still more earnestly than before, 
Ernest examined the poet’s features; then 
turned towards the Great Stone Face; then 
back, with an uncertain aspect, to his guest. 
But his countenance fell; he shook his head, 
and sighed. 

“Wherefore are you sad?” inquired the 
poet. 

“Because,” replied Ernest, “all through 
life I have awaited the fulfillment of a proph¬ 
ecy; and, when I read these poems, I hoped 
that it might be fulfilled in you.” 

“You hoped,” answered the poet, faintly 
smiling, “to find in me the likeness of the 
Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, 
55 


Gbe <5reat Stone face 


as formerly with Mr. Gathergold, and Old 
Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. 
Yes, Ernest, it is my doom. You must add 
my name to the illustrious three, and record 
another failure of your hopes. For — in 
shame and sadness do I speak it, Ernest — 
I am not worthy to be typified by yonder 
benign and majestic image.” 

“And why?” asked Ernest. He pointed 
to the volume. “Are not those thoughts 
divine?” 

“They have a strain of the Divinity,” 
replied the poet. “You can hear in them 
the far-off echo of a heavenly song. But my 
life, dear Ernest, has not corresponded with 
my thought. I have had grand dreams, but 
they have been only dreams, because I have 
lived — and that, too, by my own choice — 
among poor and mean realities. Sometimes 
even — shall I dare to say it ? — I lack faith 
in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness, 
which my own works are said to have made 
more evident in nature and in human life. 
Why, then, pure seeker of the good and true, 
shouldst thou hope to find me, in yonder 
image of the divine ? ” 

The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim 
with tears. So, likewise, were those of Ernest. 

At the hour of sunset, as had long been his 
56 


Gbe Great Stone tface 


frequent custom, Ernest was to discourse to 
an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants 
in the open air. He and the poet, arm in 
arm, still talking together as they went along, 
proceeded to the spot. It was a small nook 
among the hills, with a gray precipice behind, 
the stern front of which was relieved by the 
pleasant foliage of many creeping plants that 
made a tapestry for the naked rock, by hang¬ 
ing their festoons from all its rugged angles. 
At a small elevation above the ground, set in 
a rich framework of verdure, there appeared 
a niche, spacious enough to admit a human 
figure, with freedom for such gestures as spon¬ 
taneously accompany earnest thought and 
genuine emotion. Into this natural pulpit 
Ernest ascended, and threw a look of familiar 
kindness around upon his audience. They 
stood, or sat, or reclined upon the grass, as 
seemed good to each, with the departing sun¬ 
shine falling obliquely over them, and ming¬ 
ling its subdued cheerfulness with the solem¬ 
nity of a grove of ancient trees, beneath and 
amid the boughs of which the golden rays 
were constrained to pass. In another direc¬ 
tion was seen the Great Stone Face, with the 
same cheer, combined with the same solem¬ 
nity, in its benignant aspect. 

Ernest began to speak, giving to the people 
57 


Gbe Great Stone 3face 


of what was in his heart and mind. His 
words had power, because they accorded with 
his thoughts; and his thoughts had reality and 
depth, because they harmonized with the life 
which he had always lived. It was not mere 
breath that this preacher uttered; they were 
the words of life, because a life of good deeds 
and holy love was melted into them. Pearls, 
pure and rich, had been dissolved into this 
precious draught. The poet, as he listened, 
felt that the being and character of Ernest 
were.a nobler strain of poetry than he had 
ever written. His eyes glistening with tears, 
he gazed reverentially at the venerable man, 
and said within himself that never was there 
an aspect so worthy of a prophet and a sage 
as that mild, sweet, thoughtful countenance, 
with the glory of white hair diffused about it. 
At a distance, but distinctly to be seen, high 
up in the golden light of the setting sun, ap¬ 
peared the Great Stone Face, with hoary 
mists around it, like the white hairs around 
the brow of Ernest. Its look of grand benefi¬ 
cence seemed to embrace the world. 

At that moment, in sympathy with a thought 
which he was about to utter, the face of Ernest 
assumed a grandeur of expression, so imbued 
with benevolence, that the poet, by an irresist- 
58 


THE OLD MANSE, CONCORD 



# 















































































































































Zbe Great Stone aface 

ible impulse, threw his arms aloft, and 
shouted,— 

“Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the 
likeness of the Great Stone Face !” 

Then all the people looked, and saw that 
what the deep-sighted poet said was true. 
The prophecy was fulfilled. But Ernest, 
having finished what he had to say, took the 
poet’s arm, and walked slowly homeward, 
still hoping that some wiser and better man 
than himself would by and by appear, bearing 
a resemblance to the Great Stone Face. 


59 


Stubs of Z\)t (Breat Stone fface 


Now read the story through again and again, 
each time with the idea of verifying or improving 
the statements in one or more of the topics in the 
following study. In these latter readings learn 
to skip quickly all those parts that do not refer to 
the point you have in mind. Train your eye to 
see at a glance what a paragraph relates to, whether 
it be to a person or to the development of the plot. 
The first time, you perused the story carefully 
word by word for a general impression — now you, 
read to find what is said here and there on a par¬ 
ticular subject. The attitude of your mind has 
changed. At first it was merely receptive, now it 
inquires and weighs. 

i. The Persons. The chief person is Ernest 
himself. He appears in the story at first as a lit¬ 
tle boy sitting with his mother at the door of his 
cottage, and deeply interested in the Great Stone 
Face, which, though it remains immovable at the 
end of the valley, is in itself almost a living per¬ 
son. Ernest grows up under our eyes, changing 
from the pensive child to the quiet, unobtrusive 
boy, having no other teacher than the Great Stone 
Face. Later we see him as a young man, as a 
middle-aged man, and as an old man hopefully 
waiting, though often despondent in his anticipa- 
60 



StuDg of fTbe Great Stone 3face 


tion of the fulfillment of the prophecy. He is a 
middle-aged man when fame comes to him, and 
though he labors for his bread and remains the 
same simple-hearted man, yet to others it seems 
as though he has been talking with the angels and 
has imbibed a portion of their wisdom unawares. 
In the last scene of the story, he is a venerable 
man with a glory of white hair diffused about his 
sweet, thoughtful countenance, which bears an 
aspect worthy of a prophet and a sage. 

As secondary characters, we see introduced 
one after the other, Gathergold, Old Blood-and- 
Thunder, Old Stony Phiz, and The Poet. The 
first is a “ shrewd and active man who was 
endowed by Providence with that inscrutable fac¬ 
ulty which develops itself in what the world calls 
luck.” The whole world has yielded him its trib¬ 
ute until it may be said of him, as of Midas in 
the fable, that whatever he touches with his finger 
immediately glistens and turns into piles of coin. 
Hawthorne pictures him “with a skin as yellow 
as if his own Midas hand had transmuted it. He 
had a low forehead, small, sharp eyes, puckered 
about with innumerable wrinkles, and very thin 
lips which he made still thinner by pressing them 
forcibly together.” His hand is like a yellow 
claw. 

Old Blood-and-Thunder is infirm with age and 
wounds, weary of the turmoil of military life. Still 
he is tall and stately, and when he stands up at the 
61 


Studs of fTbe event Stone Jace 

banquet he is seen over the shoulders of the crowd, 
and his face assumes a look of strong command, 
not tempered by any milder traits. 

Old Stony Phiz is neither rich nor warlike, but 
he is an orator, mightier than the miser and the 
warrior. His tongue is like a magic instrument. 
Sometimes it rumbles like the thunder, and “ some¬ 
times it warbles like the sweetest music.” In the 
barouche he sits with his head uncovered; “the 
brow with its massive depth and loftiness, and 
all the other features, indeed, were boldly and 
strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more than 
heroic, of a Titanic, model.” But something has 
been left out originally, or has departed so that 
there is a weary gloom in the deep caverns of nis 
eyes as of a child that has outgrown its playthings. 

Of the Poet’s personal appearance Hawthorne 
says little, but he lauds his skill as a versifier so 
highly that we are inclined to believe the Poet a 
most attractive man. 

2. Character and its Development. This 
story is one that deals particularly with the devel¬ 
opment of a character. The boy, simple, gentle, 
and refined, was thrown under the influence of, 
and in almost daily contact with, one of the sub- 
limest phenomena in nature. By conversation 
with his mother he learned to love and be in sym¬ 
pathy with this almost human face, and his hopes 
and aspirations all centered in the realization of 
the prophecy. He met Gathergold, the personifi- 
62 


5tu£m of ftbe ©teat Stone fface 

cation of wealth, and at first was hopeful because 
of the possibilities that he thought lay before one 
who had such means. Ultimately he saw the hol¬ 
lowness of the miser’s pretensions, and grew the 
better for this acquaintance with the world. When 
Old Blood-and-Thunder came, Ernest hoped that 
in spite of the bloody career the man had had, 
there might be in him the power for good that so 
high an ideal must possess. But he was not car¬ 
ried away by the plaudits of the people; he clung 
more closely to his conception, and his character 
came from this test stronger even than before. 
Though there was much for him to admire in the 
character of Old Stony Phiz, yet the fame that 
came through his marvelous oratory was as noth¬ 
ing to Ernest when he found that heart-power, 
and love for mankind were lacking. By con¬ 
stantly cherishing his high ideal, and by the long 
periods of reflection in which he seemed to com¬ 
mune with the spirit of the Great Stone Face, his 
ideas, not gained from books, were raised to a 
higher tone and acquired a tranquil and familiar 
majesty as if he had made the angels his daily 
friends. It was in the Poet that Ernest found a man 
most nearly to his satisfaction. His sympathies 
were strongly enlisted, and had it not been for the 
confession of the Poet himself, Ernest might have 
hailed him as the realization of his prophecy, but 
when the Poet explained his own character, Ernest 
recognized the weakness, and gave up regretfully 

63 


Stubs ot Gbe <3reat Stone Jface 


the hope he had cherished. By these experiences 
Ernest himself grew steadily like the ideal he had 
so long held, and when at the last he stood in his 
rock-bound pulpit, the influences of nature had 
made him fully the personification of what was 
typified in the Great Stone Face. But his modesty 
prevented him from feeling this, and he remained 
simple, quiet, and kindly, hoping that some man 
wiser and better than himself would by and by 
appear. 

Hawthorne describes the character of each per¬ 
son he introduces, and leaves very little to be 
learned through their conversation and their acts. 
They conduct themselves in harmony with his 
descriptions, but they speak and act solely for the 
purpose of throwing light upon the character of 
Ernest. 

3. Emotions Involved. In Gathergold are 
avarice and thirst for wealth, Old Blood-and- 
Thunder is ambitious and hungry for power, Old 
Stony Phiz is selfish and disappointed, the Poet is 
a dreamer and false to his high ideals, yet these 
traits do not impress the reader except as they 
affect Ernest in his veneration for truth, and his 
love of mankind. When the reading is finished 
one finds himself convinced of the sincerity of 
Ernest, and mastered by admiration for the man 
who followed his ideals so closely, and realized 
them so completely. 

4. The Plot. Among Hawthorne’s notes is 

64 


StuDE of fTbe Great Stone fface 


the following paragraph, written long before the 
story was completed, which contains the plot in 
as simple a form as we can give it: — 

“The semblance of a human face to be formed 
on the side of a mountain, or in the fracture of a 
small stone, by a lusus natures (freak of nature). 
The face is an object of curiosity for years or 
centuries, and by and by a boy is born whose 
features gradually assume the aspect of that por¬ 
trait. At some critical juncture the resemblance 
is found to be perfect. A prophecy may be con¬ 
nected. ” 

Hawthorne carried out his plan almost to the 
letter, though he has made the face more than an 
object of curiosity, and has put into the plot the 
one thought that the boy’s features gradually 
assumed the aspect of the face because of his love 
for nature and because he followed closely his 
high ideals. 

5. The Scene. The scene of this entire story 
is in a spacious valley surrounded by lofty moun¬ 
tains. Some of the people were poor and dwelt 
in log huts. Others had comfortable farm houses, 
and others again were gathered into populous vil¬ 
lages. At the head of this valley was the wonder¬ 
ful Great Stone Face, resembling the likeness of a 
Titan on the face of the precipice. When the 
spectator was near at hand he lost some of the 
outline of this gigantic visage, but further away it 
seemed altogether like a human face, and as it 

65 


Stubs of XLbe <3reat Stone 3face 

grew dim in the remote distance with the clouds 
and glorified vapor of the mountains clustering 
about it, it seemed actually alive. 

But each important event in the story has its 
own stage setting. Mr.Gathergold is introduced 
in his marvelous marble palace so dazzlingly white 
that it seemed as though the whole structure might 
melt away in sunshine. Hawthorne has described 
this in detail, and makes it all contribute to 
our appreciation of the fact that Gathergold’s 
whole soul was in his riches; he could not close 
his eyes except where the gleam of gold was cer¬ 
tain to find its way beneath his eyelids. It is at a 
banquet where the tables are arranged in a cleared 
space of the woods, shut in by surrounding 
trees with a vista opening eastward toward the 
Great Stone Face, that Blood-and-Thunder is 
introduced to Ernest. Old Stony Phiz comes to 
him in a great cavalcade prancing along the road 
with the noisy clattering of hoofs and a mighty 
cloud of dust. Hawthorne makes much of the 
brilliant spectacle and describes the people, the 
banners, the pictures, and the triumphant music 
that echoed in airy and soul-thrilling melodies 
from the heights and hollows of the mountains. 
But he is particular to tell us that the dust from 
this cavalcade hid completely from Ernest’s eyes 
the visage on the mountainside. 

To Ernest’s own humble home the Poet comes, 
and takes his place at the hearthstone. Haw- 
66 


Stut>£ of fTbe ©teat Stone 3face 


thorne says little or nothing of the surroundings, 
and the attention of the reader is centered in the 
two men and their conversation. 

6. Local Coloring. There are no striking 
effects in this story. It is simple, commonplace, 
and might have been located with equal propriety 
in a valley in any of the Eastern States. There is 
nothing that fixes it definitely in any place, 
though people have thought that Hawthorne 
might have had in his mind the “Old Man of the 
Mountain” or the profile in the Franconia Notch 
of the White Mountains, for we know that Haw¬ 
thorne had visited these mountains in his occa¬ 
sional rambles from home. There are passages 
tracing the character of Old Stony Phiz that make 
one think of Webster, and Emerson might almost 
have sat for the portrait of Ernest. But we have 
no right to assume that his characters were meant 
to typify any persons whom Hawthorne had 
known in actual life. 

Not only is there nothing which fixes The Great 
Stone Face in any particular place, but there are 
in the writing few touches of local coloring that 
offer even an indirect suggestion as to the place, 
or even country, where the events occurred. The 
people speak good English, showing education 
and cultivation, and there are no marked collo¬ 
quialisms or peculiarities in dialect. A few ex¬ 
pressions like cutting a caper would tend to locate 
the story in New England. There is nothing 
67 


5tu£>£ of fCbe ©reat Stone fface 


unconventional in the dress nor peculiar in the 
manners of the people. 

7. Purpose and Lesson. It is evident that 
Hawthorne had a distinct purpose in the creation 
of this story. That purpose has been sufficiently 
explained in the discussion of the plot in this 
study. We are able to see here how a somewhat 
fanciful idea entering the sensitive mind of an 
author creates the desire to elaborate the idea in 
the form of a story. We feel certain that the 
idea exerted an influence over Hawthorne himself, 
and the charming way in which he has wrought 
out the story impresses itself with almost equal 
force upon us. We are willing to accept at his 
hands the lesson which he teaches so plainly. 
There must be a lesson in the story for all of us, 
but what it is for the individual reader no one but 
himself can tell, and we can not make it more 
clear to him by comment nor strengthen it by 
explanation. 


68 


tEbe ‘Rime of tbe Undent flbartner 


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



\ 





SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 














•Narrative poetry 


Any narrative poem is first of all a story, and 
before the reader can fully appreciate it in all its 
literary beauty, he must make himself acquainted 
with it in the same way that we have studied The 
Great Stone Face. 

The example we take for analysis is in most 
striking contrast to the story we have just dis¬ 
cussed, and it illustrates forcibly how heavy are 
the demands sometimes made upon a reader’s 
imagination. 

The Ancient Mariner may not be a perfect type 
of the narrative poem, but it has a distinct plot 
upon which hangs much of the weird interest 
the poem creates. We will read it this time 
for the story, omitting for the once any seri¬ 
ous consideration of its troubled philosophy and 
uncanny suggestion. Make preliminary prepara¬ 
tion for this as for The Great Stone Face by read¬ 
ing the poem from the beginning continuously 
to the end. In reading do not try to make any 
explanation of the supernatural events. Let your 
imagination run riot, and for the time believe in 
all the weird creations. Later, if you wish, you 
can attempt to harmonize it with real life and try 
to understand its import. 

7i 



IRarrative ipoetrg 


It is especially to be considered that the author 
of The Ancient Mariner was but twenty-six years 
of age when the poem was published and that, 
consequently, one is not justified in trying to 
discover in his lines points of correspondence be¬ 
tween his unfortunate later career and the life of 
the old sailor represented in the narrative. 

If you feel interested in learning of the source 
from which the essential ideas in the plot were 
obtained, read the paragraph beginning at the 
bottom of page 284 in this volume. 

As the setting of this poem proves perplexing 
to some students, it may be well to state that the 
ancient sailor introduced in the first line is 
doomed to ceaseless wandering and remorse be¬ 
cause of wanton crime. He stops one of three 
guests who are on their way to [a wedding; and 
almost at the very door of the bridegroomV, 
home narrates to his reluctant listener the sorrow¬ 
ful account of his misdeed and its punishment. 
From time to time, sounds of the merriment and 
the music made by the wedding party, as well as 
exclamations of horror uttered by the belated 
guest, interrupt the Mariner’s recital. 


72 


TTbe IRime of tbe ancient flbariner 

PART I 

It is an ancient Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three. 

‘ ‘ By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me ? 

‘ ‘ The bridegroom’s doors are opened wide, 
And I am next of kin; 

The guests are met, the feast is set: 

May’st hear the merry din.” 

He holds him with a skinny hand, 

“There was a ship,” quoth he. 

“Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon ! ” 
Eftsoons 1 his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 

The Wedding-guest stood still, 

And listens like a three years’ child: 

The Mariner hath his will. 


i. Quickly. 

Note. Coleridge printed an explanatory prose narrative in quaint 
style and broken sentences, in the margin of the poem. It was omitted 
here because it interfered somewhat with the purpose for which we use 
the poem. 


73 



fTbe IRfme of tbc Bncfent /iftariner 

The Wedding-guest sat on a stone : 

He can not choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 

The bright-eyed Mariner :— 

The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the lighthouse top. 

% 

The sun came up upon the left, 

Out of the sea came he ! 

And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 

Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon— 

The Wedding-guest here beat his breast, 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into the hall, 

Red as a rose is she; 

Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The Wedding-guest he beat his breast, 

Yet he can not choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 

The bright-eyed Mariner :— 

74 


Gbe mme of tbe ancient /ifcarinet 

And now the storm-blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong : 

He struck with his o’ertaking wings, 

And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping prow, 

As who 2 pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 
And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold: 

And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 

As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts, the snowy clifts 3 
Did send a dismal sheen : 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— 

The ice was all between. 

The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, 
Like noises in a swound! 4 

2. As [one] who is pursued. 

3. Cliffs—cliffs are cleft rocks. 

4. Like noises [one hears] in a swoon. 

75 



Zbc tRime of tbe Bncient dbarlner 

At length did cross an Albatross, 
Thorough 5 the fog it came; 

As if it had been a Christian soul, 

We hailed it in God’s name. 

It ate the food it ne’er had eat, 

And round and round it flew. 

The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 

The helmsman steered us through. 


And a good south wind sprung up behind; 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play, 

Came to the mariner’s hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine ; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
Glimmered the white moonshine. 

“God save thee, ancient Mariner, 

From the fiends that plague thee thus! — 
Why look’st thou so?”—With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross. 6 


5. Through. Thorough to preserve the meter. 

6. A great sea-bird, the largest known. It sometimes follows a ship for 
days without resting. 


76 



Zbe IRtme of tbe Bncient dbarlner 


PART II 

The sun now rose upon the right 
Out of the sea came he, 

Still hid in the mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew behind, 
But no sweet bird did follow, 

Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariner’s hollo ! 

And I had done a hellish thing, 

And it would work ’em woe : 

For all averred I had killed the bird 
That made the breeze to blow,— 

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 
That made the breeze to blow. 

Nor dim, nor red, like God’s own head, 
The glorious sun uprist : 7 
Then all averred I had killed the bird 
That brought the fog and mist. 

’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. 
That bring the fog and mist. 


7. Uprose. 


77 



Gbe IRime of tbe ancient dbatiner 


The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
The furrow followed free ; 

We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
’Twas sad as sad could be ; 

And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 

All in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody sun, at noon, 

Right up above the mast did stand, 8 
No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water, everywhere, 

And all the boards did shrink; 

Water, water, everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot: O Christ! 

That ever this should be ! 

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 


8 . Where is the ship now ? 


78 



Gbe IRlme of tbe Bncient dbadnet 

About, about, in reel and rout 9 
The death-fires danced at night; 

The water, like a witch’s oils, 

Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so; 

Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

And every tongue, through utter drought, 
Was withered at the root; 

We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 

Ah ! well a day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 


9. A confused and whirling dance. 


79 



Zbc IRlme of tbe Bncient Mariner 


PART III 

There passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time ! a weary time ! 

How glazed each weary eye ! 

When looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck, 

And then it seemed a mist: 

It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 10 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 

And still it neared and neared: 

As if it dodged a water-sprite, 

It plunged, and tacked, and veered. 

With throats unslacked, with black lips baked, 
We could nor laugh nor wail; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood! 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 

With throats unslacked, with black lips baked, 
Agape they heard me call : 


io. Knew. 


8o 



$be IRtnie ot tbe Bncfent Mariner 


Gramercy ! 11 they for joy did grin, 

And all at once their breath drew in, 

As they were drinking all. 

See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 

Hither to work us weal ; 

Without a breeze, without a tide, 

She steadies with upright keel ! 

The western wave was all a-flame, 

The day was well-nigh done ! 

Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad, bright sun ; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the sun. 

And straight the sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace !) 

As if through a dungeon grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 

Are those her sails that glance in the sun, 

Like restless gossameres ? 12 

Are those her ribs through which the sun 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 

11. An exclamation derived from the French grand merci, great thanks, 

12. Films like cobwebs, seen floating in the air in summer. 

8l 



Gbe IRime of tbe ancient /ifcarfnet 


And is that Woman all her crew ? 

Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 

Is Death that woman’s mate ? 

Her lips were red, her looks were free, 

Her locks were yellow as gold: 

Her skin was as white as leprosy, 

The night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 

Who thicks man’s blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came, 

And the twain were casting dice; 

“The game is done ! I’ve won, I’ve won !” 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The sun’s rim dips: the stars rush out: 

At one stride comes the dark; 13 
With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, 

Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We listened and looked sideways up ! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed 
white; 

From the sails the dew did drip — 

Till clomb 14 above the eastern bar 

13. In the tropics there is little or no twilight. 

14. Climbed. 


82 



Zbc IRime of tbe Bncient Mariner 

The horned moon , 16 with one bright star 
Within the the nether tip. 

One by one, by the star-dogged moon, 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
And cursed me with his eye. 

Four times fifty living men, 

( And I heard nor sigh nor groan ) 

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 

They dropped down one by one. 

The souls did from their bodies fly,— 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 

And every soul, it passed me by, 

Like the whiz of my cross-bow ! 


15. The waning moon. 


83 



Gbe Uttme of tbe Bncfent d&arfnet 


PART IV 

“I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long, and lank and brown, 
As is the ribbed sea-sand. 

I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 

And thy skinny hand so brown.” 

Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-guest ( 
This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 

And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautiful! 

And they all dead did lie: 

And a thousand, thousand slimy things 
Lived on; and so did I. 

I looked upon the rotting sea, 

And drew my eyes away; 

I looked upon the rotting deck, 

And there the dead men lay. 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 

84 


Gbe IRime of tbe ancient Mariner 


A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the 
sky, 

Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 

Nor rot nor reek did they: 

The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 

An orphan’s curse would drag to hell 
A spirit from on high; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 
Is the curse in a dead man’s eye ! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 
And yet I could not die. 

The moving moon went up the sky, 

And nowhere did abide: 

Softly she was going up, 

And a star or two beside — 

Her beams bemock’d the sultry main, 

Like April hoar-frost spread; 


Gbe TRlme ot tbe Bncient Mariner 

But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 

Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes: 

They moved in tracks of shining white, 
And when they reared, the elfish light 
Fell off in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 
I watched their rich attire: 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
They coiled and swam; and every track 
Was a flash of golden fire. 

O happy, living things ! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare: 

A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
And I blessed them unaware: 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
And I blessed them unaware. 

The selfsame moment I could pray; 

And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 


86 


Gbe IRlme of tbe Bnclent /ibariner 


PART V 

O sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole ! 

To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 

The silly buckets on the deck, 

That had so long remained, 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew; 
And when I awoke, it rained. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank; 

Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 

And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs: 

I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 

And was a blessed ghost. 

And soon I heard a roaring wind: 

It did not come anear; 

But with its sound it shook the sails, 
That were so thin and sere. 


ttbe IRtme of tbe Bnclent /Bbartaet 


The upper air burst into life ! 

And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 

To and fro they were hurried about! 

And to and fro, and in and out, 

The wan stars danced between. 

And the coming wind did roar more loud, 

And the sails did sigh like sedge : 

And the rain poured down from one black 
cloud: 

The moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The moon was at its side : 

Like water shot from some high crag, 

The lightning fell with never a jag, 

A river steep and wide. 

The loud wind never reached the ship, 

Yet now the ship moved on ! 

Beneath the lightning and the moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 


They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 

It had been strange, even in a dream, 

To have seen those dead men rise. 


88 


tlbe Tftime of tbe Bncient /ibariner 


The helmsman steered; the ship moved on; 
Yet never a breeze up blew; 

The mariners all ’gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 
We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother’s son 
Stood by me, knee to knee : 

The body and I pulled at one rope, 

But he said naught to me. 

“ I fear thee, ancient Mariner! ” 

Be calm, thou Wedding-guest ! 

’T was not those souls that fled in pain, 

Which to their corses came again, 

But a troop of spirits blest: 

For when it dawned—they dropped their 
arrfis, 

And clustered round the mast ; 

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 
And from their bodies passed. 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 

Then darted to the sun ; 

Slowly the sounds came back again, 

Now mixed, now one by one. 

89 


Gbe mm e of tbe ancient flftarfner 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the sky-lark sing ; 

Sometimes all little birds that are, 

How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning! 

And now ’twas like all instruments, 

Now like a lonely flute ; 

And now it is an angel’s song, 

That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on, 

Yet never a breeze did breathe : 

Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep, 

From the land of mist and snow, 

The spirit slid: and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 

The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 

90 


Gbe IRlme of tbe Bncient Mariner 


The sun, right up above the mast, 

Had fixed her to the ocean: 

But in a minute she ’gan stir, 

With a short, uneasy motion— 
Backwards and forwards half her length 
With a short, uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 

She made a sudden bound: 

It flung the blood into my head, 

And I fell down in a swound. 


How long in that same fit I lay, 

I have not to declare; 

But ere my living life returned, 

I heard, and in my soul discerned, 

Two voices in the air. 

“Is it he ?” quoth one, “ Is this the man? 
By him who died on cross, 

With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 

‘ * The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow.. 

He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow. ” 


91 


Zbc IRfme of tbe Bncfent dftarinet: 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew: 

Quoth he, “The man hath penance done, 
And penance more will do.” 


92 


$be IRlme of tbe ancient Mariner 


PART VI 

FIRST VOICE 

But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 

Thy soft response renewing— 

What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the ocean doing ? 

SECOND VOICE 

Still as a slave before his lord, 

The ocean hath no blast; 

His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go; 

For she guides him smooth or grim. 

See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him. 

FIRST VOICE 

But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind ? 

SECOND VOICE 

The air is cut away before, 

And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! 
Or we shall be belated: 


93 


tibe IRfme of tbc ancient Mariner 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 

When the mariner’s trance is abated. 

I woke, and we were sailing on 
As in a gentle weather: 

’ T was night, calm night, the moon was high; 
The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck, 

For a charnel-dungeon 16 fitter: 

All fixed on me their stony eyes, 

That in the moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
Had never passed away: 

I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 

Nor turn them up to pray. 

And now this spell was snapt: once more 
I viewed the ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seen — 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round walks on, 

And turns no more his head; 

16. A vault or chamber underneath or near a church, where the bones 
of the dead are laid. 


94 



Gbe IRlme of tbe Bncient dftartner 

Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made: 

Its path was not upon the sea, 

In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring— 

It mingled strangely with my fears, 

Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 

Yet she sailed softly too: 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 

On me alone it blew. 

Oh! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
The lighthouse top I see? 

Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 

Is this mine own countree ? 

We drifted o’er the harbour-bar, 

And I with sobs did pray — 

O let me be awake, my God! 

Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 

So smoothly it was strewn ! 

95 


Gbe IRlme of tbc ancient flbarlnet 


And on the bay the moonlight lay, 

And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock: 

The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light, 
Till rising from the same, 

Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
In crimson colours came. 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were : 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 

O Christ! what saw I there ! 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And, by the holy rood ! 17 
A man all light, a seraph-man, 

On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand 
It was a heavenly sight! 

They stood as signals to the land, 

Each one a lovely light; 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand 
No voice did they impart — 


17. Holy Cross. 


96 



Gbe IRfme of the Bndent dfcarfncr 

No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

I heard the Pilot’s cheer; 

My head was turned perforce away, 

And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 

I heard them coming fast: 

Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the Hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 
That he makes in the wood. 

He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away 
The Albatross’s blood. 


97 


Gbe IRime of tbe indent partner 


PART VII 

This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 

He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 

He hath a cushion plump : 

It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 

‘ ‘ Why, this is strange, I trow ! 

Where are those lights so many and fair, 

That signal made but now?” 

‘‘Strange, by my faith!” the Hermit said— 
“And they answered not our cheer. 

The planks look warped ! and see those sails, 
How thin they are and sere! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

“Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest brook along; 

98 


Gbe TRimc of tbe Bncient Partner 


When the ivy-tod 18 is heavy with snow, 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 

That eats the she-wolf’s young.” 

“Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look — 

(The Pilot made reply) 

I am a-feared ” — “ Push on, push on ! ” 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirred ; 

The boat came close beneath the ship, 

And straight a sound was heard. 

Under the water it rumbled on, 

Still louder and more dread : 

It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 

The ship went down like lead. 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 
Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned 
My body lay afloat; 

But swift as dreams, myself I found 
Within the Pilot’s boat. 

Upon the whirl where sank the ship, 

The boat spun round and round ; 


18. Thick clump of ivy. 


99 



Gbe IRfme of tbe ancient Satinet 

And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit; 

The Holy Hermit raised his eyes, 

And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars : the Pilot’s boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
His eyes went to and fro. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ” quoth he, “full plain I see, 
The Devil knows how to row.” 

And now, all in my own countree, 

I stood on the firm land ! 

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 

“ O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! ” 
The Hermit crossed his brow. 

“ Say quick,” quoth he, “I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou ? ” 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
With a woeful agony, 

Which forced me to begin my tale; 

And then it left me free. 


IOO 


Gbe IRtme of tbe ancient mariner 

Since then, at an uncertain hour, 

That agony returns : 

And till my ghastly tale is told, 

This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land; 

I have strange power of speech; 

That moment that his face I see, 

I know the man that must hear me: 

To him my tale I teach. 

What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
The Wedding-guests are there : 

But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bridemaids singing are : 

And hark the little vesper bell, 

Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

O Wedding-guest ! This soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea: 

So lonely’t was, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

O sweeter than the marriage feast, 

’T is sweeter far to me, 

To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! 

To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 


IOI 


Gbe IRlme of the Bndent fflSailner 

While each to his great Father bends, 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
And youths and maidens gay ! 

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-guest ! 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small; . 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all. 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 

Whose beard with age is hoar, 

Is gone : and now the Wedding-guest 
Turned from the bridegroom’s door 

He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn : 

A sadder and a wiser man, 

He rose the morrow morn. 


102 


StufcE of Ufoe IRtme of tbe Bncient 
fl&ariner 


This time we will not divide our discussion by 
the several topics of the outline, but will cover the 
points in continuous narration. As far as possible 
verify or successfully contradict from the poem 
the statements and conclusions that follow. 

A more weird and striking creation than Cole¬ 
ridge^ Ancient Mariner is difficult to find. 
“Long, lank and brown, as is the ribbed sea- 
sand,” with his skinny hand, long gray beard, and 
glittering eye he passes like night from land to 
land and tells his tale to the men that should hear 
him. Despite its confusing and uncanny setting 
the story is a simple one. He kills a bird of good 
omen and in so doing offends its guardian spirit. 
His shipmates for a penalty hang the dead 
body about his neck, the spirit follows the ship 
and takes its revenge. All the sailors but the 
offender die of thirst. In a moment of admira¬ 
tion for the beaut)/ of the water snakes he blesses 
them unawares and the bird falls from his neck 
into the sea. The mariner’s life is spared, but 
bitter remorse continues as his punishment. 

By a happy choice of quaint expressions and 
solemn forms of speech, and by the use of rare 
and obsolete words Coleridge manages to give an 

103 



StuDs of Zb e Bncfent Mariner 

atmosphere perfectly in harmony with his princi¬ 
pal characters. Then he introduces supernatural 
creatures: Two voices discuss the causes of the 
marvelous voyage of the ship. Death and a fear¬ 
ful specter with skin as white as leprosy cast dice 
for the mariner’s fate. Seraphs reanimate the 
bodies of the sailors. A spirit from the land of 
mist and snow follows the ship nine fathoms 
deep. The ship moves on “without or wind or 
wave,” and reaches the harbor from which it 
sailed though now its sails are “ thin ” and “ sere ” 
like — 

“ Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest brook along; 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 

That eats the she-wolf’s young.” 

The mariner tells his story within hearing of the 
wedding feast. The ship sails to the south and 
enters the land of mist and snow where ice, mast 
high and green as emerald, floats by; it returns 
to the tropics and in the zone of calms lies idle 
“as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.” By 
means of these most vivid descriptions the reader 
sees the ice-bound ocean, the rotting sea, the beau¬ 
tiful phosphorescence, the mponlit harbor. Some 
of the musical descriptive lines haunt one’s mem¬ 
ory, and the pictures they raise are never effaced: — 
104 


5tub\> of fTbe Bncfent dbarfnet 

“ And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen: ” 

“ All in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody sun at noon,” 

“The sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out: 

At one stride comes the dark.” 

Perhaps no one scene is more vivid than the 
one which is described in Part IV. Then, after 
the horror of that awful voyage what peace rests 
upon the little harbor at home: — 

“The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 

So smoothly it was strewn ! 

And on the bay the moonlight lay, 

And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock: 

The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock.” 

The story is intensely dramatic at times, as 
when the mariner having described the albatross 
and the good luck it brought, seems overcome by 
some fearful recollection and pauses in his narra¬ 
tive. 

“ God save thee, ancient Mariner! 

From the fiends that plague thee thus!— 

Why lookest thou so ? ”— 

io 5 


Stubs of Gbe Bncfent farmer 

Coleridge indulges in no description, does not 
even interrupt the musical flow of the stanza, but 
makes the mariner abruptly close that part of the 
poem with the startling announcement, * * With my 
cross-bow I shot the Albatross.” 

These are but a few of the things that go to 
make this poem so remarkable. To give so con¬ 
vincing an air of reality to what is wholly imag¬ 
inary is a mark of genius, and surely there could 
be no more effective way of presenting the lesson 
than this :— 

“ Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-guest! 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 

For the dear God who loveth us. 

He made and loveth all.” 


106 


finocb Hrfcen 


ALFRED TENNYSON 












■ . 









\ 


I 






♦ 















% 






V 








I 











THE RETURN OF THE FISHERMAN 



































* 

< 









Enoch Hr ben 


Long lines of cliff breaking have left a 
chasm ; 

And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster; then a moulder’d church; and 
higher 

A long street climbs to one tail-tower’d mill; 
And high in heaven behind it, a gray down 
With Danish barrows , 1 and a hazelwood, 

By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cup-like hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port, 

And Philip Ray, the miller’s only son, 

And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor’s lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play’d 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore, 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 

i. Burial mounds supposed to have been made at the time England was 
invaded by the Danes. 


IO9 




jEnocb Bthett 


To watch them overflow’d, or following up 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash’d away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff; 

In this the children played at keeping house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 
While Annie still was mistress; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week: 
“This is my house and this my little wife.” 
“Mine too,” said Philip, “turn and turn 
about:’ ’ 

When if they quarrell’d, Enoch stronger made 
Was master : then would Philip, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 
Shriek out, “I hate you, Enoch,” and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 

And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 
And say she would be little wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, 
And the new warmth of life’s ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, 
But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl 
Seem’d kinder unto Philip than to him ; 

But she loved Enoch : tho’ she knew it not, 
And would if ask’d deny it. Enoch set 


no 


3£nocb BtDen 


A purpose evermore before his eyes, 

To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 

To purchase his own boat, and make a home 
For Annie: and so prosper’d that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 

A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year 
On board a merchantman, and made himself 
Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck’d a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming 
seas: 

And all men look’d upon him favorably: 

And ere he touch’d his one-and-twentieth May 
He purchased his own boat, and made a home 
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up 
The narrow street that clamber’d toward the 
mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 

The younger people making holiday, 

With bag and sack and basket, great and 
small, 

Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay’d 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 

An hour behind; but as he climb’d the hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair 


Enoch Brhen 


Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, 

His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, 

That burn’d as on an altar. Philip look’d, 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan’d 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood; 
There, while the rest were loud in merry¬ 
making, 

Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the 
bells, 

And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, 
Seven happy years of health and competence, 
And mutual love and honorable toil; 

With children; first a daughter. In him 
woke, 

With his first babe’s first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost, 

And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew’d, 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 

While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, 

Or often journeying landward; for in truth 


Bttocb Brben 


Enoch’s white horse, and Enoch’s ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier , 2 and his face, 
Rough-redden’d with a thousand winter gales, 
Not only to the market cross 3 4 were known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 

Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp 1 
And peacock-yewtree 5 of the lonely Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch’s ministering. 

Then came a change, as all things human 
change. 

Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open’d a larger haven: thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea; 

And once when there, and clambering on a 
mast 

In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell: 

A limb was broken when they lifted him; 

And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one: 

Another hand crept too across his trade 
Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, 

2. Basket made from osiers. 

3. In many of the old English villages is a public square used as a 
market place. In the center of this frequently stands a large stone cross, 
perhaps overshadowing a drinking place for cattle and a fountain for 
men. 

4. Over the doorway of the hall was a lion-whelp, probably carved in 
stone, and signifying guardianship. 

5. In the old gardens trees were often trimmed into fanciful shapes. 
Here was one in the form of a peacock. 

113 



Bnocb Srbcn 


Altho’ a grave and staid God-fearing man, 

Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 

He seem’d, as in a nightmare of the night, 

To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 

And her he loved, a beggar: then he pray’d 
“ Save them from this, whatever comes to me.” 
And while he pray’d, the master of that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 
Came, for he knew the man and valued him, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 

And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go ? 
There yet were many weeks before she sail’d, 
Sail’d from this port. Would Enoch have the 
place ? 

And Enoch all at once assented to it, 

Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appear’d 
No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 

And isles a light 6 in the offing: yet the wife — 
When he was gone—the children — what to do? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather’d in 
her ! 


6. The shadow of a cloud resembles an island out at sea. 


114 



)6nocb ar&en 


He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she 
brought 

Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in 
trade 

With all that seamen needed or their wives — 
So might she keep the house while he was 
gone. 

Should he not trade himself out yonder ? go 
This voyage more than once? yea, twice or 
thrice—- 

As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 

With fuller profits lead an easier life, 

Have all his pretty young ones educated, 

And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all: 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 

And laid the feeble infant in his arms; 

Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, 
Appraised his weight and fondled father-like, 
But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch’s golden ring had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will: 
ri 5 


36nocb Brfcen 


Yet not with brawling opposition she, 

But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 

Many a sad kiss by day by night renew’d 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 

He not for his own self caring but her, 

Her and her children, let her plead in vain; 

So grieving held his will, and bore it thro’. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his 
hand 

To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch’s last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, 
Auger and saw, while Annie seemed to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill’d and 
rang, 

Till this was ended, and his careful hand,— 
The space was narrow,— having order’d all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he, 
Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie’s fears, 

116 


Bnocb Brben 


Save as his Annie’s, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow’d himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, 
Pray’d for a blessing on his wife and babes, 
Whatever came to him: and then he said 
‘ ‘ Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 

Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, 
For I’ll be back, my girl, before you know it.” 
Then lightly rocking baby’s cradle, * ‘ and he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one,— 

Nay—for I love him all the better for it— 

God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 

And make him merry, when I come home 
again. 

Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go.” 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard, 
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn’d 
The current of his talk to graver things, 

In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 
Heard and not heard him; as the village girl, 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her, 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

TI 7 


Enocb BrOen 


At length she spoke, “ O Enoch, you are 
wise; 

And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more.” 

“Well then,” said Enoch, “ I shall look 
on yours. 

Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 

(He named the day), get you a seaman’s glass, 

Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.” 

But when the last of those last moments 
came, 

‘ ‘ Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come again, 

Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 

And fear no more for me; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.. 
Is he not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these 
Can I go from him ? and the sea is His, 

The sea is His: He made it.” 


Enoch rose, 

Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, 
And kiss’d his wonder-stricken little ones; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
n 8 


Bnocb BrOcn 


When Annie would have raised him Enoch 
said, 

“Wake him not; let him sleep; how should 
the child 

Remember this?” and kiss’d him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby’s forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept 
Thro’ all his future; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his 
way. 

She, when the day that Enoch mention’d, 
came, 

Borrow’d a glass, but all in vain: perhaps 
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; 
She saw him not: and while he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev’n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She watch’d it, and departed weeping for him; 
Then, tho’ she mourn’d his absence as his 
grave, 

Set her sad will no less to chime with his, 

But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 

Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 

119 


JEttocb Brfcen 


And still foreboding “ what would Enoch say?’’ 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she sold : 
She fail’d and sadden’d knowing it; and thus, 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain’d for her own a scanty sustenance, 

And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born and 
grew 

Yet sicklier, tho’ the mother cared for it 
With all a mother’s care: nevertheless, 
Whether her business often call’d her from it, 
Or thro’ the want of what it needed most, 

Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 
What most it needed — howsoe’er it was, 
After a lingering,— ere she was aware,— 

Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, 

The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip’s true heart, which hungered for her 
peace 

(Since Enoch left he had not look’d upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 

“ Surely,” said Philip, “ I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort;” therefore went, 


120 


Bnocb Brben 


Past thro’ the solitary room in front, 

Paused for a moment at an inner door, 

Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter’d; but Annie, seated with her grief, 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 

Cared not to look on any human face, 

But turned her own toward the wall and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly, 

4 ‘ Annie, I came to ask a favor of you. ” 

He spoke; the passion in her moan’d reply, 
“ Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! ” half abashed him; yet unask’d, 

His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 

He set himself beside her, saying to her: 

“ I came to speak to you of what he wish’d, 
Enoch, your husband: I have ever said 
You chose the best among us— a strong man: 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will’d, and bore it thro’. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way, 

And leave you lonely ? not to see the world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours were lost. 


lEnocb BrOen 


And it would vex him even in his grave, 

If he could know his babes were running wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — 
Have we not known each other all our lives ? — 
I do beseech you by the love you bear 
Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again, 
Why then he shall repay me—if you will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 

Now let me put the boy and girl to school: 
This is the favor that I came to ask.” 

Then Annie with her brows against the wall 
Answered, * * I can not look you in the face; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 

When you came in my sorrow broke me 
down; 

And now I think your kindness breaks me 
down; 

But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me; 

He will repay you: money can be repaid; 

Not kindness such as yours.” 

And Philip ask’d 

“ Then you will let me, Annie ? ” 

There she turn’d, 

She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon 
him, 


122 


JEnocb BrDen 


And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, 

Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, 
And past into the little garth beyond. 

So lifted up in spirit, he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, 
And bought them needful books, and every 
way, 

Like one who does his duty by his own, 

Made himself theirs; and tho’ for Annie’s 
sake, 

Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 

He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 

And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall, 

Or conies from the down, and now and then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie’s mind: 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon 
her, 

Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children’s all-in-all; 

123 


Enocb Brben 


From distant corners of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily; 

Lords of his house and of his mill were they; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play’d with 
him, 

And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain’d 
As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem’d to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream, 

Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue, 

Going we know not where: and so ten years, 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie’s children 
long’d 

To go with others nutting to the wood, 

And Annie would go with them; then they 
begg’d 

For Father Philip (as they call’d him) too: 
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust 
Blanched with his mill, they found; and say¬ 
ing to him, 

‘‘Come with us, Father Philip,” he denied; 
But when the children pluck’d at him to go, 
He laughed, and yielded readily to their wish, 
For was not Annie with them? and they went. 
124 


IS nocb Br&en 


But after scaling half the weary down, 

Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail’d her; and sighing, “Let me rest,” she 
said: 

So Philip rested with her well-content; 

While all the younger ones with jubilant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 
Down thro’ the whitening hazels made a 
plunge 

To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or 
broke 

The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
And calling,here and there about the wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Rer presence, and remembr’d one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow: at last he said, 
Lifting his honest forehead, 4 ‘ Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the wood. 
Tired, Annie ? ” for she did not speak a word. 
“Tired?” but her face had fall’n upon her 
hands; 

At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 

“The ship was lost,” he said, “the ship was 
lost! 


125 


Ettocb Br&ett 


No more of that ! why should you kill your¬ 
self 

And make them orphans quite ? ” And Annie 
said 

“I thought not of it; but—I know not why— 
Their voices make me feel so solitary.” 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke, 
“Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 

And it has been upon my mind so long, 

That tho’ I know not when it first came 
there, 

I know that it will out at last. Oh, Annie, 

It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 

That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living; well then—let me 
speak: 

I grieve to see you poor and wanting help: 

I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless—they say that women are so quick— 
Perhaps you know what I would have you 
know— 

I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 
A father to your children: I do think 
They love me as a father: I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine own; 
And I believe, if you were fast my wife, 

That after all these sad uncertain years, 

126 


Enoch BrOen 


We might be still as happy as God grants 
To any of His creatures. Think upon it: 

For I am well-to-do—no kin, no care, 

No burthen, save my care for you and yours: 
And we have known each other all our lives, 
And I have loved you longer than you know.” 

Then answer’d Annie; tenderly she spoke: 
“ You have been as God’s good angel in our 
house. 

God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was ? what is it that you ask ?” 

“I am content,” he answer’d, “to be loved 
A little after Enoch.” “Oh,” she cried, 
Scared as it were, ‘ ‘ dear Philip, wait a 
while: 

If Enoch comes—but Enoch will not come— 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: 

Surely I shall be wiser in a year: 

Oh, wait a little ! ” Philip sadly said, 

“Annie, as I have waited all my life, 

I well may wait a little,” “Nay,” she cried, 
“I am bound: you have my promise—in a 
year; 

Will you not bide your year as I bide mine? ” 
And Philip answered, “ I will bide my year.” 
127 


3£nocb BrDett 


Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead; 

Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, rose, 
And sent his voice beneath him through the 
wood. 

Up came the children laden with their spoil; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie’s door he paused and gave his hand, 
Saying gently, “Annie, when I spoke to you, 
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong. 
I am always bound to you, but you are free.” 
Then Annie weeping answered, “I am bound.” 

She spoke; and in one moment as it were, 
While yet she went about her household ways, 
Ev’n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 

That he had loved her longer than she knew, 
That autumn into autumn flashed again, 

And there he stood once more before her face, 
Claiming her promise. “Is it a year?” she 
asked. 

“Yes, if the nuts,” he said, “be ripe again: 
Come out and see.” But she—she put him 
off— 

So much to look to—such a change—a month— 
Give her a month—she knew that she was 
bound— 


128 


Bttocb Brben 


A month — no more. Then Philip with his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard’s hand, 

“Take your own time, Annie, take your own 
time.” 

And Annie could have wept for pity of him; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 

Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 

Till half another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 7 
Began to chafe as at a personal wirong. 

Some thought that Philip did but trifle with 
her; 

Some that she but held off to draw him on; 
And others laugh’d at her and Philip too, 

As simple folk that knew not their own minds; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho’ he often look’d his wish; 

But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty; 

And Philip’s rosy face contracting grew 

7. They were mortified that the predictions they made were not verified. 

I29 



jEnocb Brben 

Careworn and wan; and all these things fell 
on her 

Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray’d for a sign, “ My Enoch, is he gone ?” 
Then compass’d round by the blind wall of 
night 

Brook’d not the expectant terror of her heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 

Suddenly put her finger on the text, 

“ Under the palm-tree.” That was nothing to 
her: 

No meaning there: she closed the Book and 
slept: 

When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height, 
Under a palm-tree, over him the sun : 

“ He is gone,” she thought, “he is happy, he 
is singing 

Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing cried 
‘ Hosanna in the highest ! ’ ” Here she woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, 
“There is no reason why we should not wed.” 
130 


3Bnocb Brfcen 


“Then for God’s sake,” he answer’d, “both 
our sakes, 

So you will wed me, let it be at once.” 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 

But never merrily beat Annie’s heart. 

A footstep seem’d to fall beside her path, 

She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear, 
She knew not what; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 

What ail’d her then, that ere she enter’d, often, 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew : 
Such doubts and fears were common to her 
state, 

Being with child : but when her child was 
born, 

Then her new child was as herself renew’d, 
Then the new mother came about her heart. 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 

And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch ? prosperously sail’d 
The ship Good Fortune, tho’ at setting forth 
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook 
And almost overwhelm’d her, yet unvext 
She slioped across the summer of the world, 

T 3i 


JE nocb Brben 


Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair, 

She passing thro’ the summer world again, 
The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 

Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage : at first in¬ 
deed 

Thro’ many a fair sea-circle, 8 day by day, 
Scarce-rocking her full-busted figure-head 
Stared o’er the ripple feathering from her 
bows: 

Then follow’d calms, and then winds variable, 
Then baffling, a long course of them ; and last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless 
heavens 

Till hard upon the cry of “breakers” came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 
But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
Buoy’d upon floating tackle and broken spars, 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 


8 .0n shipboard far out at sea the horizon forms a perfect circle. 
132 



THE BREAKERS 














































■ 





JEttocb Brhen 


No want was there of human sustenance, 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing 
roots; 

Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch’d with leaves of palm, 
a hut, 

Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 

Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than 
boy, 

Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, 
Lay lingering out a five-years’ death-in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he was gone, 
The two remaining found a fallen stem; 

And Enoch’s comrade, careless of himself, 
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 
Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 

In those two deaths he read God’s warning, 
“Wait” 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the 
lawns 

And winding glades high up like ways to 
Heaven, 

The slender coco’s drooping crown of plumes, 
i33 


Bnocb BrDen 


The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 

The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil’d around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev’n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world , 9 
All these he saw ; but what he fain had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face, 

Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, 
The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees that 
branch’d 

And blossom’d in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 

As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 

A shipwreck’d sailor, waiting for a sail: 

No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and precipices; 
The blaze upon the waters to the east : 

The blaze upon his island overhead ; 

The blaze upon the waters to the west; 

Then the great stars that globed themselves in 
Heaven, 

The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 


9. That is, the ocean. 


*3 4 



JBnocb BcDen 


There often as he watch’d or seem’d to 
watch, 

So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 

A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him, haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things, and places, 
known 

Far in a darker isle beyond the line; 

The babes, their babble, Annie, the small 
house, 

The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 

The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-color’d seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho’ faintly, merrily — far and far away — 

He heard the pealing of his parish bells; 

Then, tho’ he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful 
isle 

Return’d upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being everywhere 
Lets none who speaks with Him seem all 
alone, 

Surely the man had died of solitude. 

*35 


jEnocb Brben 


Thus over Enoch’s early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 

Not yet had perish’d, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water), blown by baffling winds, 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined 
course, 

Stay’d by this isle, not knowing where she 
lay: 

For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills, 

They sent a crew that landing burst away 
In search of stream or fount, and fill’d the 
shores 

With clamor. Downward from his mountain 
gorge 

Stept the long-hair’d, long-bearded solitary, 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, 
Muttering and mumbling, idiot-like it seem’d, 
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 
They knew not what: and yet he led the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran; 

And ever as he mingled with the crew, 

And heard them talking, his long-bounden 
tongue 


136 


Bnocb Br&ett 


Was loosen’d, till he made them understand; 
Whom, when their casks were fill’d they took 
aboard 

And there the tale he utter’d brokenly, 
Scarce-credited at first but more and more, 
Amazed and melted all who listen’d to it; 

And clothes they gave him and free passage 
home; 

But oft he work’d among the rest and shook 
His isolation from him. None of these 
Came from his county, or could answer him, 
If question’d, aught of what he cared to 
know. 

And dull the voyage was with long delays, 

The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 
He like a lover down thro’ all his blood 
Drew in the dewy, meadowy morning-breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall : 10 
And that same morning officers and men 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 

Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: 
Then moving up the coast they landed him, 
Ev’n in that harbor whence he sail’d before. 


io. The south coast of England is of precipitous chalk cliffs which 
from the sea look white and ghostlike. 


*37 



JErtocb Brbcn 


There Enoch spoke no word to any one, 

But homeward — home—what home ? had he 
a home ? — 

His home, he walked. Bright was that after¬ 
noon, 

Sunny but chill; till drawn thro’ either chasm, 
Where either haven open’d on the deeps, 
Roll’d a sea-haze and whelmed the world in 
gray; 

Cut off the length of highway on before, 

And left but narrow breadth to left and right 
Of wither’d holt or tilth or pasturage. 

On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro’ the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it 
down: 

Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom; 
Last, as it seem’d, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly 
stolen, 

His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 

His eyes upon the stones, he reach’d the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his 
babes 

In those far-off seven happy years were born; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
138 


JBnocb Brbett 


(A bill of sale gleam’d thro’ the drizzle) crept 
Still downward, thinking, “dead, or dead to 
me ! ” 


Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 

A front of timber-crost 11 antiquity, 

So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, 

He thought it must have gone; but he was 
gone 

Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
With daily dwindling profits held the house; 

A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in, 

Told him, with other annals of the port, 

Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow’d, 
So broken — all the story of his house. 

His baby’s death, her growing poverty, 

How Philip put her little ones to school, 

And kept them in it, his long wooing her, 

Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 

xx. Old English houses were built in such a way that the walls were 
of plaster through which the timbers ran, plainly visible. This “half- 
timbered " style of architecture may be seen in pictures of Shakesp jare's 
birthplace. 


139 



36 nocb BrDert 


Of Philip’s child: and o’er his countenance 
No shadow past, nor motion: any one, 
Regarding, well had deem’d he felt the tale 
Less than the teller; only when she closed, 

“ Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost,” 
He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 
Repeated muttering, ‘‘cast away and lost;” 
Again and deeper inward whispers, “lost! ” 

But Enoch yearned to see her face again; 

“ If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy.” So the thought 
Haunted and harass’d him, and drove him 
forth, 

At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 

There he sat down gazing on all below; 

There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip’s house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip’s dwelling fronted on the street, 
The latest house to landlord; but behind, 

With one small gate that open’d on the waste, 
Flourish’d a little garden square and wall’d: 
140 


Enoch Brben 


And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 

A yewtree, and all around it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it: 

But Enoch shunn’d the middle walk and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence 
That which he better might have shunn’d, if 
griefs 

Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish’d board 
Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth: 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 

Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; 
And o’er her second father stoopt a girl, 

A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 

Fair-hair’d and tall; and from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear’d his creasy 
arms, 

Caught at, and ever miss’d it, and they 
laugh’d: 

And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe, 
But turning now and then to speak with him, 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, for he 
smiled. 

141 


Enoch BrDen 


Now when the dead man come to life be¬ 
held 

His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father’s knee, 

And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful, 

And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children’s love,— 
Then he, tho’ Miriam Lane had told him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than things 
heard, 

Stagger’d and shook, holding the branch, and 
fear’d 

To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 

Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 

Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden wall, 

Lest he should swoon and tumble and be 
found, 

Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man’s chamber-door, 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his 
knees 


142 


JEttocb Be ben 


Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray’d. 

“Too hard to bear ! why did they take me 
thence ? 

O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer! aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 

Help me not to break in upon her peace. 

My children too ! must I not speak to these ? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 
Never: no father’s kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son.” 

There speech and thought and nature fail’d 
a little 

And he lay tranced; but when he rose and 
paced 

Back toward his solitary home again, 

All down the long and narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain, 

As tho’ it were the burthen of a song, 

“Not to tell her, never to let her know.” 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
i43 


Bnocb BrDen 


Prayer from a living source within the will, 
And beating up thro’ all the bitter world, 

Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, 

Kept him a living soul. “This miller’s wife,” 
He said to Miriam, “that you spoke about, 
Has she no fear that her first husband lives ? ” 
“Ay, ay, poor soul,” said Miriam, “fear enow ! 
If you could tell her you had seen him dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort;” and he 
thought 

“After the Lord has call’d me she shall know, 
I wait His time; ” and Enoch set himself, 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help’d 
At lading and unlading the tall barks, 

That brought the stinted commerce of those 
days; 

Thus earn’d a scanty living for himself: 

Yet since he did but labor for himself, 

Work without hope, there was not life in it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as the year 
Roll’d itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had return’d, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do no more, 
But kept the house, his chair* and last his bed. 
144 


Bnocb Brben 


And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 

For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck 
See thro’ the gray skirts of a lifting squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life approach 
To save the life despair’d of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro’ that dawning gleam’d a kindlier 
hope 

On Enoch thinking, ‘ ‘ After I am gone, 

Then may she learn I lov’d her to the last.” 
He call’d aloud for Miriam Lane and said 
“Woman, I have a secret —only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.” 
“Dead,” clamor’d the good woman, “hear 
him talk; 

I warrant, man, that we shall bring you 
round.” 

“Swear,” added Enoch, sternly, “on the 
book.” 

And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 
“Did you know Enoch Arden, of this town?” 
“Know him?” she said, “I knew him far 
away. 

Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street; 
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he.” 
x 45 


Snocb BrDen 


Slowly and sadly Enoch answered her : 

“His head is low, and no man cares for him. 
I think I have not three days more to live ; 

I am the man.” At which the woman gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 

“You Arden, you ! nay,—sure he was a foot 
Higher than you be.” Enoch said again 
“My God has bowed me down to what I 
am ; 

My grief and solitude have broken me ; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has twice been 
changed — 

I married her who married Philip Ray. 

Sit, listen. ” Then he told her of his voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 

His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 

And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 
Fast flow’d the current of her easy tears, 
While in her heart she yearned incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 

But awed and promise-bounden she forebore, 
Saying only, “See your bairns before you 
go! 

Eh, let me fetch ’em, Arden,” and arose, 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied, 

146 


JEnocb BrDen 


“Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 

Sit down again; mark me and understand, 
While I have power to speak. I charge you 
now 

When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; 

Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she lay her head beside my own. 

And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 

And say to Philip that I blest him too; 

He never meant us anything but good. 

But if my children care to see me dead, 

Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 
I am their father; but she must not come, 

For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood, 
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be: 

This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it, 

And I have borne it with me all these years, 
And thought to bear it with me to my grave; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see 
him, 

My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone, 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her: 

*47 


JEnocb Brben 


It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he.” 


He ceased; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 
That once again he roll’d his eyes upon her 
Repeating all he wish’d, and once again 
She promised. 


Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber’d motionless and pale, 
And Miriam watch’d and dozed at intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea, 

That all the houses in the haven rang. 

He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad, 
Crying with a loud voice, ‘ ‘ A sail ! a sail! 

I am saved;” and so fell back and spoke no 
more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 

And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 


148 


Stubs of Enoch Brben 


Apply now to the story of Enoch Arden the plan 
followed in our discussion of The Great Stone Face, 
and as you determine the facts under each head¬ 
ing note them and finally write out briefly and as 
smoothly as possible the ideas you have gained 
under each topic. Do not neglect the writing. 
Not only will it assist your own powers of expres¬ 
sion but you will find that your ideas become much 
more clearly defined as you try to commit them 
to paper. It is not easy for one person to direct 
the work of another, for no two see the same 
things in the same way. Question yourself closely 
and rely upon your own judgment. The follow¬ 
ing questions, topically arranged, may assist you 
in your study:— 

i. What can you find descriptive of the per¬ 
sonal appearance of Annie ? Were you pleased 
that Enoch should win Annie at first ? Did you 
feel that Philip ought to be finally successful in 
his suit? Were you strongly interested in Annie’s 
struggles? Toward the close did you find your¬ 
self thinking more of Enoch than of the others ? 
Who is really the chief character ? What purpose 
had Tennyson in introducing the children into the 
scene where Enoch looks in upon the home that 
is not his ? What does Miriam Lane add to the 
story ? 


149 



Studs of Bnocb arbcn 


2. What contrasts show in the character of 
Philip and Enoch when they were children? Com¬ 
pare them as young men in their wooing. After 
Enoch’s return, what differences can you see in 
them as men ? Which had the nobler character ? 
Compare the boy Enoch with the old man Enoch. 
Has there been an improvement in character or a 
deterioration? Answer the same question con¬ 
cerning Annie. How does Tennyson make you 
understand these things ? Does he tell you out¬ 
right, or does he leave you to infer the character 
of each person ? 

3. What emotions are dominant in the boys at 
play, in Enoch at his parting with Annie when he 
starts on his voyage, in Annie when Philip pro¬ 
poses, in Enoch at the window, in Philip at the 
same time ? Run over the chief incidents of the 
narrative and see how each affected your feelings. 
Were you sad with Enoch or happy with Philip 
when the former stood outside the window ? Did 
you have a personal regard for any of the persons ? 
Was Annie a lovable girl, a sincere and earnest 
woman ? Did you feel a repugnance toward any 
person at any time or did you sympathize with all 
and feel that all were worthy of happiness and suf¬ 
fered merely because of fortune and not from their 
deserts? Did you think well of Enoch for leaving 
a message to be delivered to Annie after his death ? 

4. Compress the plot into less than fifty words. 
To do this, omit names, places, and secondary 


Stubs of JEitocb Brben 


incidents and give plainly a series of incidents 
from which if any one was omitted the plot would 
be impossible. Are the following essential inci¬ 
dents or are they secondary: the breaking of 
Enochs limb, the death of the child, Annie's find¬ 
ing of the text “ under the palm tree, ” Enoch on 
the island hearing the parish bells, Philip’s mar¬ 
riage, the baby rearing its arms to catch the ring 
dangled by the later Annie Lee ? Determine why 
the author introduced each of these incidents. 
Select many others for similar consideration. 

5. If you were to act this story, how many 
scenes would you find it necessary to make ? Does 
Tennyson describe them so you could fit up a 
stage successfully for each? Do you realize that 
the incidents happen in a fishing village ? Com¬ 
pare it with some town of your own acquaintance. 
Does Tennyson make the tropical island seem dif¬ 
ferent from the nutting grounds ? How ? Where 
was the village in which Annie lived ? Can you 
close your eyes and see one after another the 
places where the leading incidents occurred? 
Select a half dozen beautiful descriptions and com¬ 
mit the text to memory. 

6. What do the following phrases signify, and 
what do they show you of the locality: — 

“ A gray down with Danish barrows. ” 

“Anchors of rusty fluke.” 

“Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp 
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall.” 

I 5 I 


Stubs of J6nocb Brben 


u See your bairns before you go. ” 

These are a very few of the expressions that 
give local coloring to the story. Look for others. 
Find twenty expressions or more, that without di¬ 
rectly telling you, really make you sensible of loca¬ 
tion in time or place. Where did you see anything 
that partook of the supernatural? Was it intro¬ 
duced in such a way as to shock you or so as to 
seem unnatural? Was it really a supernatural 
incident or was it merely a strange coincidence ? 
Does its acceptance by any of the persons throw 
any light upon their characters or upon the loca¬ 
tion of the story in time or place ? 

7. Do you think Tennyson deliberately in¬ 
tended to teach a lesson of self-sacrifice ? Does 
he think Annie did right in marrying Philip? 
Does he approve of Philip’s course throughout? 
Are you able to determine Tennyson’s ideas, or 
does he seem merely the skillful narrator telling a 
story that pleased him ? 

8. Has the story been an inspiration to you in 
any way ? Has it caused you to look upon the 
duties and responsibilities of life in a different 
way ? Do you feel more strongly upon any ques¬ 
tion of right and wrong because you have read the 
story ? Do you think Tennyson has strengthened 
the final impression by the last three lines, or 
would you have felt better pleased had the story 
stopped with the words: “and so fell back and 
spoke no more ” ? 


152 


Zbe ambitious (Sues? 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 




Studies 


Now take The Ambitious Guest and read it 
thoughtfully, keeping in mind all the points we 
have been discussing in the stories we have out¬ 
lined. Read it more than once, and let the spirit 
of the selection become part of yourself. Analyze 
it carefully in your mind by our topical outline, 
and then write in a few pages, a review touching 
upon our several points of observation, but ar¬ 
ranging your matter in a less formal way, after the 
manner of the notes on The Ancient Mariner . 
Write so that your review reads naturally and 
easily from beginning to end without the interrup¬ 
tions which the catch-lines have given to the dis¬ 
cussion of The Great Stone Face . Do not be afraid 
to quote when it illustrates the point you wish to 
make. When you have finished your writing, read 
your essay aloud carefully from beginning to end 
to see if you have made a smooth composition 
and given to a possible reader of your own review 
all that was best in the selection you have studied. 
If you are dissatisfied try again, or take an entirely 
different story and write upon that. 

In The Ambitious Guest Hawthorne has made 
use of an incident still told tourists through Fran¬ 
conia Notch in the White Mountains. In August, 
1826, the Willey family were living at the foot of 
*55 


the mountain, in a low, one-story house at which 
travelers passing through the Notch would often 
stop. After a long drought in that year there was 
a terrible tempest that raised the rivers and so 
loosened the soil above that a great section of the 
mountain came sliding down. Hearing the roar 
of the approaching mass, the family rushed out of 
doors; and all, Mr. and Mrs. Willey, their five 
children, and two hired men, were crushed by the 
flying debris. Had they remained indoors they 
would have been saved, for a ledge above the house 
parted the slide and it swept by in two streams, 
leaving the house unharmed. 


TTbe Bmbfttous (Buest 


One September night a family had gathered 
round their hearth, and piled it high with the 
driftwood of mountain streams, the dry cones 
of the pine, and the splintered ruins of great 
trees that had come crashing down the preci¬ 
pice. Up the chimney roared the fire, and 
brightened the room with its broad blaze. The 
faces of the father and mother had a sober 
gladness; the children laughed; the eldest 
daughter was the image of Happiness at seven¬ 
teen; and the aged grandmother, who sat knit¬ 
ting in the warmest place, was the image of 
Happiness grown old. They had found the 
“herb, heart’s-ease,” in the bleakest spot of 
all New England. This family were situated 
in the Notch of the White Hills, where the 
wind was sharp throughout the year, and piti¬ 
lessly cold in the winter, —giving their cottage 
all its fresh inclemency before it descended on 
the valley of the Saco. They dwelt in a cold 
spot and a dangerous one; for a mountain 
towered above their heads, so steep, that the 
stones would often rumble down its sides and 
startle them at midnight. 

*57 



Gbe ambitious <5ueat 


The daughter had just uttered some simple 
jest that filled them all with mirth, when 
the wind came through the Notch and seemed 
to pause before their cottage—rattling the 
door, with a sound of wailing and lamentation, 
before it passed into the valley. For a moment 
it saddened them, though there was nothing 
unusual in the tones. But the family were 
glad again when they perceived that the latch 
was lifted by some traveler, whose footsteps 
had been unheard amid the dreary blast which 
heralded his approach, and wailed as he was 
entering, and went moaning away from the 
door. 

Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these 
people held daily converse with the world. 
The romantic pass of the Notch is a great ar¬ 
tery, through which the lifeblood of internal 
commerce is continually throbbing between 
Maine, on one side, and the Green Mountains 
and the shores of the St. Lawrence, on the 
other. The stage-coach always drew up before 
the door of the cottage. The wayfarer, with 
no companion but his staff, paused here to ex¬ 
change a word, that the sense of loneliness 
might not utterly overcome him ere he could 
pass through the cleft of the mountain, or 
reach the first house in the valley. And here 



THE FLUME, WHITE MOUNTAINS 


































Gbe BmMttoue (Suest 


the teamster, on his way to Portland market, 
would put up for the night; and, if a bachelor, 
might sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime, and 
steal a -kiss from the mountain maid at part¬ 
ing. It was one of those primitive taverns 
where the traveler pays only for food and 
lodging, but meets with a homely kindness be¬ 
yond all price. When the footsteps were 
heard, therefore, between the outer door and 
the inner one, the whole family rose up, grand¬ 
mother, children, and all, as if about to wel¬ 
come some one who belonged to them, and 
whose fate was linked with theirs. 

The door was opened by a young man. His 
face at first wore the melancholy expression, 
almost despondency, of one who travels a wild 
and bleak road, at nightfall and alone, but 
soon brightened up when he saw the kindly 
warmth of his reception. He felt his heart 
spring forward to meet them all, from the 
old woman, who wiped a chair with her apron, 
to the little child that held out its arms to him. 
One glance and smile placed the stranger on a 
footing of innocent familiarity with the eldest 
daughter. 

“Ah, this fire is the right thing ! ” cried he; 
‘ ‘ especially when there is such a pleasant 
circle round it. I am quite benumbed; for 
i59 


Gbe Bmbftfous <5uest 

the Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair 
of bellows; it has blown a terrible blast in my 
face all the way from Bartlett.” 

“Then you are going towards Vermont ? ” 
said the master of the house, as he helped to 
take a light knapsack off the young man’s 
shoulders. 

“Yes; to Burlington, and far enough be¬ 
yond, ” replied he. ‘ ‘ I meant to have been at 
Ethan Crawford’s to-night; but a pedestrian 
lingers along such a road as this. It is no 
matter; for, when I saw this good fire, and all 
your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kin¬ 
dled it on purpose for me, and were waiting my 
arrival. So I shall sit down among you, and 
make myself at home. ’ ’ 

The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn 
his chair to the fire when something like a 
heavy footstep was heard without, rushing 
down the steep side of the mountain, as with 
long and rapid strides, and taking such a leap 
in passing the cottage as to strike the opposite 
precipice. The family held their breath, be¬ 
cause they knew the sound, and their guest held 
his by instinct. 

“The old mountain has thrown a stone at 
us, for fear we should forget him,” said the 
landlord, recovering himself. “ He sometimes 
160 


Gbe ambitious (Buest 


nods his head and threatens to come down; 
but we are old neighbors, and agree together 
pretty well upon the whole. Besides we have 
a sure place of refuge hard by if he should be 
coming in good earnest.” 

Let us now suppose the stranger to have 
finished his supper of bear’s meat; and, by his 
natural felicity of manner, to have placed 
himself on a footing of kindness with the 
whole family, so that they talked as freely 
together as if he belonged to their mountain 
brood. He was of a proud, yet gentle spirit, 
— haughty and reserved among the rich and 
great; but ever ready to stoop his head to the 
lowly cottage door, and be like a brother or a 
son at the poor man’s fireside. In the house¬ 
hold of the Notch he found warmth and sim¬ 
plicity of feeling, the pervading intelligence of 
New England, and a poetry of native growth, 
which they had gathered when they little 
thought of it from the mountain peaks and 
chasms, and at the very threshold of their ro¬ 
mantic and dangerous abode. He had trav¬ 
eled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had 
been a solitary path ; for, with the lofty cau¬ 
tion of his nature, he had kept himself apart 
from those who might otherwise have been his 
companions. The family, too, though so kind 
161 


Zbc Bm&ttfous Guest 


and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity 
among themselves, and separation from the 
world at large, which, in every domestic cir¬ 
cle, should still keep a holy place where no 
stranger may intrude. But this evening a 
prophetic sympathy impelled the refined and 
educated youth to pour out his heart before 
the simple mountaineers, and constrained them 
to answer him with the same free confidence. 
And thus it should have been. Is not the 
kindred of a common fate a closer tie than 
that of birth? 

The secret of the young man’s character 
was a high and abstracted ambition. He could 
have borne to live an undistinguished life, but 
not to be forgotten in the grave. Yearning 
desire had been transformed to hope ; and 
hope, long cherished, had become like cer¬ 
tainty, that, obscurely as he journeyed now, a 
glory was to beam on all his pathway,—though 
not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But 
when posterity should gaze back into the gloom 
of what was now the present, they would 
trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening 
as meaner glories faded, and confess that a 
gifted one had passed from his cradle to his 
tomb with none to recognize him. 

‘ ‘ As yet, ’ ’ cried the stranger — his cheek 
162 


XLbc Bmbttfous Ouest 


glowing and his eye flashing with enthusiasm 
—‘‘as yet, I have done nothing. Were I to 
vanish from the earth to-morrow, none would 
know so much of me as you : that a nameless 
youth came up at nightfall from the valley of 
the Saco, and opened his heart to you in the 
evening, and passed through the Notch by 
sunrise, and was seen no more. Not a soul 
would ask, ‘ Who was he ? Whither did the 
wanderer go?’ But I cannot die till I have 
achieved my destiny. Then, let Death come ! 
I shall have built my monument! ’ ’ 

There was a continual flow of natural emo¬ 
tion, gushing forth amid abstracted reverie, 
which enabled the family to understand this 
young man’s sentiments, though so foreign 
from their own. With quick sensibility of the 
ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into which 
he had been betrayed. 

“You laugh at me,” said he, taking the 
eldest daughter’s hand, and laughing himself. 
“You think my ambition as nonsensical as if I 
were to freeze myself to death on the top of 
Mount Washington, only that people might 
spy at me from the country round about. And, 
truly, that would be a noble pedestal for a 
man’s statue ! ” 

“It is better to sit here by this fire,” an- 
163 


Gbe BmbMous Guest 


swered the girl, blushing, “and be comfort¬ 
able and contented, though nobody thinks 
about us.” 

“ I suppose,” said her father, after a fit of 
musing, ‘ ‘ there is something natural in what 
the young man says; and if my mind had been 
turned that way, I might have felt just the 
same. It is strange, wife, how his talk has 
set my head running on things that are pretty 
certain never to come to pass.” 

“Perhaps they may,” observed the wife. 
“ Is the man thinking what he will do when he 
is a widower ? ” 

“No, no ! ” cried he, repelling the idea with 
reproachful kindness. “When I think of your 
death, Esther, I think of mine, too. But I 
was wishing we had a good farm in Bartlett, 
or Bethlehem, or Littleton, or some other 
township round the White Mountains; but not 
where they could tumble on our heads. I 
should want to stand well with my neighbors 
and be called Squire, and sent to General 
Court for a term or two; for a plain, honest 
man may do as much good there as a lawyer. 
And when I should be grown quite an old 
man, and you an old woman, so as not to be 
long apart, I might die happy enough in my 
164 


Gbe Bmbttlous (Buest 


bed, and leave you all crying around me. A 
slate gravestone would suit me as well as a 
marble one — with just my name and age, and 
a verse of a hymn, and something to let people 
know that I lived an honest man and died a 
Christian.” 

“ There now ! ” exclaimed the stranger; “it 
is our nature to desire a monument, be it slate 
or marble, or a pillar of granite, or a glorious 
memory in the universal heart of man.” 

“We’re in a strange way, to-night,” said 
the wife, with tears in her eyes. “They say 
it’s a sign of something, when folks’ minds go 
a wandering so. Hark to the children ! ” 

They listened accordingly. The younger 
children had been put to bed in another room, 
but with an open door between, so that they 
could be heard talking busily among them¬ 
selves. One and all seemed to have caught 
the infection from the fireside circle, and were 
outvying each other in wild wishes, and child¬ 
ish projects of what they would do when they 
came to be men and women. At length a 
little boy, instead of addressing his brothers 
and sisters, called out to his mother. 

“I’ll tell you what I wish, mother,” cried 
he. “I want you and father and grandma’m, 

165 


Gbe ambitious (Suest 


and all of us, and the stranger too, to start 
right away, and go and take a drink out of the 
basin of the Flume ! ” ✓ 

Nobody could help laughing at the child’s 
notion of leaving a warm bed, and dragging 
them from a cheerful fire, to vist the basin of 
the Flume,— a brook, which tumbles over the 
precipice, deep within the Notch. The boy 
had hardly spoken when a wagon rattled along 
the road, and stopped a moment before the 
door. It appeared to contain two or three 
men, who were cheering their hearts with the 
rough chorus of a song, which resounded, in 
broken notes, between the cliffs, while the 
singers hesitated whether to continue their 
journey or put up here for the night. 

4 ‘Father,” said the girl, “they are calling 
you by name.” 

But the good man doubted whether they 
had really called him, and was unwilling to 
show himself too solicitous of gain by inviting 
people to patronize his house. He therefore 
did not hurry to the door; and the lash being 
soon applied, the travelers plunged into the 
Notch, still singing and laughing, though their 
music and mirth came back drearily from the 
heart of the mountain. 

“There, mother!” cried the boy, again. 

166 


XTbe Bmbftfous <5uest 


“They’d have given us a ride to the Flume.” 
Again they laughed at the child’s pertinacious 
fancy for a night ramble. But it happened 
that a light cloud passed over the daughter’s 
spirit; she looked gravely into the fire, and 
drew a breath that was almost a sigh. It 
forced its way, in spite of a little struggle to 
repress it. Then starting aqd blushing, she 
looked quickly round the circle, as if they had 
caught a glimpse into her bosom. The 
stranger asked what she had been thinking 
of. 

“ Nothing,” answered she, with a downcast 
smile. “ Only I felt lonesome just then.” 

“Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling 
what is in other people’s hearts,” said he, half 
seriously. * ‘ Shall I tell the secrets of yours ? 
For I know what to think when a young girl 
shivers by a warm hearth, and complains of 
lonesomeness at her mother’s side. Shall I 
put these feelings into words?” 

“They would not be a girl’s feelings any 
longer if they could be put into words,” 
replied the mountain nymph, laughing, but 
avoiding his eye. 

All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of 
love was springing in their hearts, so pure that 
it might blossom in Paradise, since it could 
167 


$be Bmbltious <3uest 


not be matured on earth; for women worship 
such gentle dignity as his; and the proud, con¬ 
templative, yet kindly soul is oftenest captivated 
by simplicity like hers. But while they spoke 
softly, and he was watching the happy sad¬ 
ness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings 
of a maiden’s nature, the wind through the 
Notch took a deeper and drearier sound. It 
seemed, as the fanciful stranger said, like the 
choral strain of the spirits of the blast, who 
in old Indian times had their dwelling among 
these mountains, and made their heights and 
recesses a sacred region. There was a wail 
along the road, as if a funeral were passing. 
To chase away the gloom, the family threw 
pine branches on their fire, till the dry leaves 
crackled and the flame arose, discovering once 
again a scene of peace and humble happiness. 
The light hovered about them fondly, and ca¬ 
ressed them all. There were the little faces 
of the children, peeping from their bed apart, 
and here the father’s frame of strength, the 
mother’s subdued and careful mien, the high- 
browed youth, the budding girl, and the good 
old grandam, still knitting in the warmest 
place. The aged woman looked up from her 
task, and with fingers ever busy, was the next 
to speak. 


168 


tlbe ambitious (Buest 


“Old folks have their notions,” said she, 
“ as well as young ones. You’ve been wish¬ 
ing and planning; and letting your heads run 
on one thing and another, till you’ve set my 
mind a wandering too. Now what should 
an old woman wish for, when she can go but 
a step or two before she comes to her grave ? 
Children, it will haunt me night and day till I 
tell you. ” 

“What is it, mother?” cried the husband 
and wife at once. 

Then the old woman, with an air of mys¬ 
tery which drew the circle closer round the 
fire, informed them that she had provided her 
grave-clothes some years before,—a nice linen 
shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, and every¬ 
thing of a finer sort than she had worn since 
her wedding day. But this evening an old 
superstition had strangely recurred to her. It 
used to be said, in her younger days, that if 
anything were amiss with a corpse, if only the 
ruff were not smooth, or the cap did not set 
right, the corpse in the coffin and beneath the 
clods would strive to put up its cold hands and 
arrange it. The bare thought made her nerv¬ 
ous. 

“Don’t talk so, grandmother!” said the 
girl, shuddering. 


169 


Gbe Bmbftious (Suest 

“Now,” — continued the old woman, with 
singular earnestness, yet smiling strangely at 
her own folly, -— “I want one of you, my chil¬ 
dren — when your mother is dressed and in the 
coffin — I want one of you to hold a looking- 
glass over my face. Who knows but I m^y 
take a glimpse at myself, and see whether all’s 
right?” 

‘ ‘ Old and young, we dream of graves ant.' 
monuments,” murmured the stranger youth- 
‘ ‘ I wonder how mariners feel when the ship 
is sinking, and they, unknown and undistin¬ 
guished, are to be buried together in the ocean 
— that wide and nameless sepulcher? ” 

For a moment, the old woman’s ghastly 
conception so engrossed the minds of her 
hearers that a sound abroad in the night, ris¬ 
ing like the roar of a blast, had grown broad, 
deep, and terrible, before the fated group were 
conscious of it. The house and all within it 
trembled; the foundations of the earth seemed 
to be shaken, as if this awful sound were the 
peal of the last trump. Young and old ex¬ 
changed one wild glance, and remained an 
instant, pale, affrighted, without utterance, or 
power to move. Then the same shriek burst 
simultaneously from all their lips. 

“The Slide! The Slide ! ” 


Z be Bmbftfous ©uest 


The simplest words must intimate, but not 
portray, the unutterable horror of the catas¬ 
trophe. The victims rushed from their cot¬ 
tage, and sought refuge in what they deemed 
a safer spot — where, in contemplation of such 
an emergency, a sort of barrier had been 
reared. Alas ! they had quitted their security, 
and fled right into the pathway of destruction. 
Down came the whole side of the mountain, 
in a cataract of ruin. Just before it reached 
the house, the stream broke into two branches 
— shivered not a window there, but over¬ 
whelmed the whole vicinity, blocked up the 
road, and annihilated everything in its dread¬ 
ful course. Long ere the thunder of the great 
Slide had ceased to roar among the mountains, 
the mortal agony had been endured, and the 
victims were at peace. Their bodies were 
never found. 

The next morning, the light smoke was seen 
stealing from the cottage chimney up the 
mountain side. Within, the fire was yet 
smouldering on the hearth, and the chairs in 
a circle round it, as if the inhabitants had 
but gone forth to view the devastation of the 
Slide, and would shortly return, to thank 
Heaven for their miraculous escape. All had 
left separate tokens, by which those who had 
171 


Ube ambitious Guest 


known the family were made to shed a tear 
for each. Who has not heard their name ? 
The story has been told far and wide, and will 
forever be a legend of these mountains. Poets 
have sung their fate. 

There were circumstances which led some 
to suppose that a stranger had been received 
into the cottage on this awful night, and had 
shared the catastrophe of all its inmates. 
Others denied that there were sufficient 
grounds for such a conjecture. Woe for the 
high-souled youth, with his dream of Earthly 
Immortality ! His name and person utterly 
unknown; his history, his way of life, his plans, 
a mystery never to be solved, his death and 
his existence equally a doubt ! Whose was 
the agony of that death moment ? 


172 






































































































Wee Willie Winfeie 


RUDYARD KIPLING 



This is the last group of the series 1 and it 
naturally ends with the little children who always 
trot after the tail of any procession. Only women 
understand children thoroughly, but if a man 
keeps very quiet and humbles himself properly, 
and refrains from talking down to his superiors, 
the children will sometimes be good to him and 
let him see what they think about the world. But 
even after patient investigation and the conde¬ 
scension of the nursery, it is hard to draw babies 
correctly. —Rudyard Kipling. 


». The allusion is to a series of stories of which Wee Willie Winkie 
was the last 


174 



mee MUlie ‘BOUnfele 

“ An officer and a gentleman.” 


His full name was Percival William Will¬ 
iams, but he picked up the other name in 
a nursery-book, and that was the end of 
the christened titles. His mother’s ayah 1 called 
him Willie-ifa£#, 2 but as he never paid the 
faintest attention to anything that the ayah 
said, her wisdom did not help matters. 

His father was the colonel of the 195th, and 
as soon as Wee Willie Winkie was old enough 
to understand what military discipline meant, 
Col. Williams put him under it. There was 
no other way of managing the child. When 
he was good for a week, he drew good-conduct 
pay; and when he was bad, he was deprived 
of his good-conduct stripe. Generally he was 
bad, for India offers so many chances to little 
six-year-olds of going wrong. 

Children resent familiarity from strangers, 
and Wee Willie Winkie was a very particular 
child. Once he accepted an acquaintance he 


1. A native maid or nurse for children. 

2. Literally father , but commonly used as a term of respect or kind¬ 
ness to children. 


*75 



HMee muiic TKUnWe 


was graciously pleased to thaw. He accepted 
Brandis, a subaltern of the 195th, on sight. 
Brandis was having tea at the Colonel’s, and 
Wee Willie Winkie entered, strong in the pos¬ 
session of a good-conduct badge won for not 
chasing the hens round the compound. 3 He 
regarded Brandis with gravity for at least 
ten minutes, and then delivered himself of his 
opinion. 

“ I like you,” said he, slowly, getting off his 
chair and coming over to Brandis. “I like 
you. I shall call you Coppy, because of your 
hair. Do you mind being called Coppy ? It is 
because of ve hair, you know.” 

Here was one of the most embarrassing of 
Wee Willie Winkie’s peculiarities. He would 
look at a stranger for some time, and then, 
without warning or explanation, would give him 
a name. And the name stuck. No regimental 
penalties could break Wee Willie Winkie of 
this habit. He lost his good-conduct badge 
for christening the commissioner’s wife 
“Pobs;” but nothing that the Colonel could 
do made the station forego the nickname, and 
Mrs. Collen remained Mrs. “Pobs” till the 
end of her stay. So Brandis was christened 

3. A walled inclosure or courtyard, containing a residence, with the 
necessary outbuildings and servants’ quarters. 

176 



TKIlee mm Ic Tminftfe 


“Coppy,” and rose, therefore, in the estima¬ 
tion of the regiment. 

If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in 
any one, the fortunate man was envied alike 
by the mess and the rank and file. And in 
their envy lay no suspicion of self-interest. 
“The Colonel’s son ” was idolized on his own 
merits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was 
not lovely. His face was permanently freck¬ 
led, as his legs were permanently scratched, 
and, in spite of his mother’s almost tearful 
remonstrances, he had insisted upon having 
his long, yellow locks cut short in the military 
fashion. “I want my hair like Sergeant 
Tummil’s,” said Wee Willie Winkie; and, his 
father abetting, the sacrifice was accom¬ 
plished. 

Three weeks after the bestowal of his 
youthful affections on Lieutenant Brandis — 
henceforward to be called “Coppy” for the 
sake of brevity — Wee Willie Winkie was 
destined to behold strange things and far be¬ 
yond his comprehension. 

Coppy returned his liking with interest. 
Coppy had let him wear for five rapturous 
minutes his own big sword — just as tall as 
Wee Willie Winkie. Coppy had promised 
him a terrier puppy; and Coppy had permit- 
1 77 


Wee TOlUe Winnie 


ted him to witness the miraculous operation 
of shaving. Nay, more — Coppy had said 
that even he, Wee Willie Winkie, would rise 
in time to the ownership of a box of shiny 
knives, a silver soap-box, and a silver-handled 
“sputter-brush, ” as Wee Willie Winkie called 
it. Decidedly, there was no one, except his 
father — who could give or take away good- 
conduct badges at pleasure—half so wise, 
strong, and valiant as Coppy with the Afghan 
and Egyptian medals on his breast. Why, 
then, should Coppy be guilty of the unmanly 
weakness of kissing — vehemently kissing — a 
“big girl,” Miss Allardyce to wit? In the 
course of a morning ride, Wee Willie Winkie 
had seen Coppy so doing, and like the gen¬ 
tleman he was, had promptly wheeled round 
and cantered back to his groom, lest the 
groom should also see. 

Under ordinary circumstances he would 
have spoken to his father, but he felt instinc¬ 
tively that this was a matter on which Coppy 
ought first to be consulted. 

“Coppy,” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, 
reining up outside that subaltern’s bungalow * 
early in the morning—“I want to see you, 
Coppy ! ” 


4. A one-storied, thatched or tiled house, surrounded by a veranda. 
178 



rncc muitte Winkle 


“ Come in, young ’un,” returned Coppy, 
who was at early breakfast in the midst of 
his dogs. ‘ ‘ What mischief have you been 
getting into now ? ” 

Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing noto¬ 
riously bad for three days, and so stood on a 
pinnacle of virtue. 

“I’ve been doing nothing bad,” said he, 
curling himself into a long chair with a studi¬ 
ous affectation of the Colonel’s languor after 
a hot parade. He buried his freckled nose in 
a teacup, and, with eyes staring roundly over 
the rim, asked: “I say, Coppy, is it pwoper to 
kiss big girls ? ” 

“By Jove! You’re beginning early. Who 
do you want to kiss ? ” 

“No one. My muvver’s always kissing me 
if I don’t stop her. If it isn’t pwoper, how 
was you kissing Major Allardyce’s big girl last 
morning, by ve canal ? ” 

Coppy’s brow wrinkled. He and Miss 
Allardyce had, with great craft, managed to 
keep their engagement secret for a fortnight. 
There were urgent and imperative reasons 
why Major Allardyce should not know how 
matters stood for at least another month, and 
this small marplot had discovered a great deal 
too much. 


179 


Wee Willie Winnie 


“I saw you,” said Wee Willie Winkie, 
calmly. “But ve groom didn’t see. I said, 

‘Hut jao.' ” 6 

“Oh, you had that much sense, you young 
rip, groaned poor Coppy, half-amused and 
half-angry. ‘ ‘And how many people may 
you have told about it ? ” 

“Only me myself. You didn’t tell when I 
twied to wide ve buffalo ven my pony was 
lame ; and I fought you wouldn’t like.” 

“Winkie,” said Coppy, enthusiastically, 
shaking the small hand, ‘ ‘ you ’re the best of 
good fellows. Look here, you can’t under¬ 
stand all these things. One of these days — 
hang it, how can I make you see it! —I’m go¬ 
ing to marry Miss Allardyce, and then she’ll 
be Mrs. Coppy, as you say. If your young 
mind is so scandalized at the idea of kissing 
big girls, go and tell your father.” 

“What will happen?’’said Wee Willie 
Winkie, who firmly believed that his father 
was omnipotent. 

“I shall get into trouble,” said Coppy, 
playing his trump card with an appealing look 
at the holder of the ace. 

“Ven I won’t,” said Wee Willie Winkie, 
briefly. “But my faver says it’s un-man-ly 

5. Go back. 

180 



Wee Millie Minftie 


to be always kissing, and I didn’t fink you'd 
do vat, Coppy.” 

“I’m not always kissing, old chap. It’s 
only now and then, and when you’re bigger 
you’ll do it, too. Your father meant it’s not 
good for little boys.” 

“Ah ! ” said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully 
enlightened. “It’s like ve sputter-brush?” 

“ Exactly, ” said Coppy, gravely. 

“ But I don’t fink I’ll ever want to kiss big 
girls, nor no one, ’cept my muvver. And I must 
do vat, you know.” 

There was a long pause broken by Wee 
Willie Winkie. 

“Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy ? ” 

“ Awfully ! ” said Coppy. 

“ Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha 
— or me ?” 

‘ ‘ It’s in a different way, ” said Coppy. ‘ * You 
see, one of these days Miss Allardyce will be¬ 
long to me, but you’ll grow up and command 
the regiment and—all sorts of things. It’s 
quite different, you see.” 

“Very well,” said Wee Willie Winkie, ris¬ 
ing. “ If you’re fond of ve big girl, I won’t 
tell any one. I must go now.” 

Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to 
the door, adding: “You’re the best of little 
181 


mcc TKHtiue mumc 


fellows, Winkie. I tell you what. In thirty 
days from now you can tell if you like—tell 
any one you like.” 

Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce 
engagement was dependent on a little child’s 
word. Coppy, who knew Wee Willie 
Winkie’s idea of truth, was at ease, for he 
felt that he would not break promises. Wee 
Willie Winkie betrayed a special and unusual 
interest in Miss Allardyce, and, slowly revolv¬ 
ing round that embarrassed young lady, was 
used to regard her gravely with unwinking eye. 
He was trying to discover why Coppy should 
have kissed her. She was not half so nice as 
his own mother. On the other hand, she was 
Coppy’s property, and would in time belong 
to him. Therefore it behooved him to treat 
her with as much respect as Coppy’s big sword 
or shiny pistol. 

The idea that he shared a great secret in 
common with Coppy kept Wee Willie Winkie 
unusually virtuous for three weeks. Then the 
Old Adam broke out, and he made what he 
called a “camp-fire” at the bottom of the 
garden. How could he have foreseen that the 
flying sparks would have lighted the Colonel’s 
little hay-rick and consumed a week’s store for 
the horses ? Sudden and swift was the pun* 
182 


m ec malic MnMe 


ishment—deprivation of the good-conduct 
badge, and, most sorrowful of all, two days’ 
confinement to barracks — the house and ve¬ 
randa— coupled with the withdrawal of the 
light of his father’s countenance. 

He took the sentence like the man he 
strove to be, drew himself up with a quiver¬ 
ing underlip, saluted, and, once clear of the 
room, ran to weep bitterly in his nursery — 
called by him “my quarters.” Coppy came 
in the afternoon and attempted to console the 
culprit. 

“I’m under awwest,” said Wee Willie 
Winkie, mournfully, “and I didn’t ought to 
speak to you.” 

Very early the next morning he climbed on 
to the roof of the house — that was not forbid¬ 
den — and beheld Miss Allardyce going for a 
ride. 

“ Where are you going? ” cried Wee Willie 
Winkie. 

“Across the river,” she answered, and 
trotted forward. 

Now the cantonment 6 in which the 195th 
lay was bounded on the north by a river — dry 
in the winter. From his earliest years, Wee 

6. In India, a portion of a city set aside as a permanent residence for 
English troops. Around it usually clustered the homes of the foreign 
residents. 


183 



umee malic minkfe 


Willie Winkie had been forbidden to go across 
the river, and had noted that even Coppy — 
the almost almighty Coppy — had never set 
foot beyond it. Wee Willie Winkie had once 
been read to — out of a big, blue book — the 
history of the princess and the goblins; a most 
wonderful tale of a land where the goblins 
were always warring with the children of men 
until they were defeated by one Curdie. Ever 
since that date, it seemed to him that the bare 
black-and-purple hills across the river were 
inhabited by goblins, and, in truth, every one 
had said that there lived the bad men. Even 
in his own house, the lower halves of the win¬ 
dows were covered with green paper on ac¬ 
count of the bad men who might, if allowed 
clear view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms 
and comfortable bedrooms. Certainly, be¬ 
yond the river, which was the end of all the 
earth, lived the bad men. And here was 
Major Allardyce’s big girl, Coppy’s property, 
preparing to venture into their borders! What 
would Coppy say if anything happened to her ? 
If the goblins ran off with her as they did 
with Curdie’s princess ? She must at all 
hazards be turned back. 

The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie 
reflected for a moment on the very terrible 
184 


mcc mime wm&te 


wrath of his father; and then — broke his 
arrest ! It was a crime unspeakable. The 
low sun threw his shadow, very large and very 
black, on the trim garden-paths, as he went 
down to the stables and ordered his pony. It 
seemed to him, in the hush of the dawn, that 
all the big world had been bidden to stand 
still and look at Wee Willie Winkie guilty of 
mutiny. The drowsy groom handed him his 
mount, and, since the one great sin made all 
others insignificant, Wee Willie Winkie said 
that he was going to ride over to Coppy 
Sahib, 7 and went out at a foot-pace, stepping 
on the soft mold of the flower-borders. 

The devastating track of the pony’s feet 
was the last misdeed that cut him off from 
all sympathy of humanity. He turned into 
the road, leaned forward, and rode as fast as 
the pony could put foot to the ground, in the 
direction of the river. 

But the liveliest of twelve-two 8 ponies can 
do little against the long canter of a waler. 9 
Miss Allardyce was far ahead, had passed 
through the crops, beyond the police-post, 

7. Sahib is a title of respect corresponding to Sir, and is used by 
the natives of India in referring to a European. 

8. In height, twelve hands and two inches — 50 inches. 

9. In India, a horse imported from Australia, particularly from New 
South Wales. 


185 



mcc nmuue mime 


when all the guards were asleep, and her 
mount was scattering the pebbles of the river¬ 
bed as Wee Willie Winkie left the canton¬ 
ment and British India behind him. Bowed 
forward and still flogging, Wee Willie Winkie 
shot into Afghan territory, and could just see 
Miss Allardyce, a black speck, flickering across 
the stony plain. The reason of her wandering 
was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of too 
hastily assumed authority, had told her over¬ 
night that she must not ride out by the river. 
And she had gone to prove her own spirit 
and teach Coppy a lesson. 

Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, 
Wee Willie Winkie saw the waler blunder and 
come down heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled 
clear, but her ankle had been severely twisted, 
and she could not stand. Having thus demon¬ 
strated her spirit, she wept copiously, and was 
surprised by the apparition of a white wide- 
eyed child in khaki, 10 on a nearly spent pony. 

“ Are you badly—badly hurted ? ” shouted 
Wee Willie Winkie, as soon as he was within 
range. “ You didn’t ought to be here.” 

“I don’t know,” said Miss Allardyce, rue- 


io. A light drab, or chocolate-colored cloth used there for uniforms by 
some of the East Indian regiments. It has since come into common use in 
hot countries. 


186 



Wee MIKe mmie 


fully, ignoring the reproof. “ Good gracious, 
child, what are you doing here ? ” 

“You said you was going acwoss ve wiver,” 
panted Wee Willie Winkie, throwing himself 
off his pony. ‘ 4 And nobody, — not even Coppy 
— must go acwoss ve wiver, and I came after 
you ever so hard; but you wouldn’t stop, and 
now you’ve hurted yourself, and Coppy will 
be angwy wiv me, and — I’ve bwoken my aw- 
west! I’ve bwoken my awwest ! ’ * 

The future colonel of the 195th sat down 
and sobbed. In spite of the pain in her ankle, 
the girl was moved. 

‘ ‘ Have you ridden all the way from canton¬ 
ments, little man ? What for ? ” 

“You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me 
so ! ” wailed Wee Willie Winkie, disconso¬ 
lately. ‘ ‘ I saw him kissing you, and he said 
he was fonder of you van Bell or ve Butcha 
or me. And so I came. You must get up 
and come back. You didn’t ought to be 
here. Vis is a bad place and I’ve bwoken my 
awwest. ” 

“I can’t move, Winkie,” said Miss Allar- 
dyce, with a groan. ‘ ‘ I’ve hurt my foot. 
What shall I do ? ” 

She showed a readiness to weep afresh, which 
steadied Wee Willie Winkie, who had been 
187 


m ec mil Uc rninftie 


brought up to believe that tears were the 
depth of unmanliness. Still, when one is as 
great a sinner as Wee Willie Winkie, even a 
man may be permitted to break down. 

“Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, “when 
you’ve rested a little, ride back and tell them 
to send out something to carry me back in. 
It hurts fearfully.” 

The child sat still for a little time, and Miss 
Allardyce closed her eyes; the pain was nearly 
making her faint. She was roused by Wee 
Willie Winkie tying up the reins on his pony’s 
neck, and setting it free with a vicious cut of 
his whip that made it whicker. The little 
animal headed toward the cantonments. 

“ Oh, Winkie ! What are you doing ? ” 

“ Hush ! ” said Wee Willie Winkie. “ Vere’s 
a man coming — one of ve bad men. I must 
stay wiv you. My faver says a man must 
always look after a girl. Jack will go home, 
and ven vey’ll come and look for us. Vat’s 
why I let him go.” 

Not one man but two or three had appeared 
from behind the rocks of the hills, and the 
heart of Wee Willie Winkie sank within him, 
for just in this manner were the goblins wont 
to steal out and vex Curdie’s soul. Thus had 
they played in Curdie’s garden — he had seen 
188 


Wee Utllie Winkle . 


the picture — and thus had they frightened the 
princess’s nurse. He heard them talking to 
each other, and recognized with joy the bas¬ 
tard Pushtu 11 that he had picked up from one 
of his father’s grooms lately dismissed. Peo¬ 
ple who spoke that tongue could not be the 
bad men. They were only natives after all. 

They came up to the bowlders on which 
Miss Allardyce’s horse had blundered. 

Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, 
child of the dominant race, aged six and three- 
quarters, and said, briefly and emphatically, 
“ Jcto ! ” The pony had crossed the river-bed. 

The men laughed, and laughter from the 
natives was the one thing Wee Willie Winkie 
could not tolerate. He asked them what 
they wanted and why they did not depart. 
Other men, with most evil faces and crooked- 
stocked guns, crept out of the shadows of the 
hills, till soon Wee Willie Winkie was face to 
face with an audience some twenty strong. 
Miss Allardyce screamed. 

“ Who are you ? ” said one of the men. 

“I am the Colonel Sahib’s son, and my or¬ 
der is that you go at once. You black men are 
frightening the Miss Sahib. One of you must 
run into cantonments and take the news that 


ii. Pushtu is the Afghan language. 

189 



mcc WUlte TOtnfcte 


the Miss Sahib has hurt herself, and that the 
Colonel’s son is here with her.” 

“Put our feet into the trap?” was the 
laughing reply. “Hear this boy’s speech ! ” 

“Say that I sent you—I, the Colonel’s 
son. They will give you money.” 

“What is the use of this talk? Take up 
the child and the girl, and we can at least ask 
for the ransom. Ours are the villages on the 
heights,” said a voice in the background. 

These were the bad men — worse than the 
goblins—and it needed all Wee Willie 
Winkie’s training to prevent him from burst¬ 
ing into tears. But he felt that to cry before 
a native, excepting only his mother’s ayah , 
would be an infamy greater than any mutiny. 
Moreover, he, as future colonel of the 195th, 
had that grim regiment at his back. 

“Are you going to carry us away?” said 
Wee Willie Winkie, very blanched and un¬ 
comfortable. 

“Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur ,” 12 said the 
tallest of the men; ‘ ‘ and eat you afterward. ’ ’ 

“That is child’s talk,” said Wee Willie 
Winkie. “Men do not eat men.” 

A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he 
went on, firmly: “And if you do carry us 


12. Bahadur is a title of marked respect, meaning hero or champion' 
I90 



Udee mmic TOnkte 


away, I tell you that all my regiment will 
come up in a day and kill you all without 
leaving one. Who will take my message to 
the Colonel Sahib ? ’ * 

Speech in any vernacular—and Wee Willie 
Winkie had a colloquial acquaintance with 
three—was easy to the boy who could not 
yet manage his r's and ttis aright. 

Another man joined the conference, crying: 
“Oh, foolish men! What this babe says is 
true. He is the heart’s heart of those white 
troops. For the sake of peace, let them go 
both; for, if he is taken, the regiment will 
break loose and gut the valley. Our villages 
are in the valley, and we shall not escape. 
That regiment are devils. They broke Khoda 
Yar’s breast-bone with kicks when he tried 
to take the rifles; and, if we touch this child, 
they will fire and rape and plunder for a 
month, till nothing remains. Better to send a 
man back to take the message and get a re¬ 
ward. I say that this child is their god, and 
that they will spare none of us, nor our 
women, if we harm him. ” 

It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed 
groom of the Colonel, who made the diversion, 
and an angry and heated discussion followed. 
Wee Willie Winkie, standing over Miss Allar- 
191 


mcc 'TOlKe TOtafcfe 


dyce, waited the upshot. Surely his 1 * wegi- 
ment,” his own “ wegiment,” would not de¬ 
sert him if they knew of his extremity. 
******* 

The riderless pony brought the news to the 
195th, though there had been consternation in 
the Colonel’s household for an hour before. 
The little beast came in through the parade- 
ground in front of the main barracks, where 
the men were settling down to play spoil-five 13 
till the .afternoon. Devlin, the color-sergeant 
of E Company, glanced at the empty saddle 
and tumbled through the barrack-rooms, kick¬ 
ing up each room corporal as he passed. “Up, 
ye beggars ! there’s something happened to the 
Colonel’s son,” he shouted. 

“He couldn’t fall off! S’elp me, ’e couldn't 
fall off,” blubbered a drummer-boy. “Go an’ 
hunt acrost the river. He’s over there if he’s 
anywhere, an’ may be those Pathans 14 have 
got ’im. For the love o’ Gawd, don’t look 
for ’im in the nullahs ! 15 Let’s go over the 
river.” 


13. A game of cards. Five are dealt each player. Three tricks win 
the game, but if no player secures that number, the game is said to t< 
spoiled. 

14. The Afghans. 

15. River-bed or dry watercourses. 

I92 



mcc 'QmtlUe TOnfcfe 


“ There’s sense in Mott yet,” said Devlin. 
“ E Company, double out to the river—sharp!” 

So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, 
doubled for the dear life, and in the rear toiled 
the perspiring sergeant, adjuring it to double 
yet faster. The cantonment was alive with 
the men of the 195th hunting for Wee Willie 
Winkie, and the Colonel finally overtook E 
Company, far too exhausted to swear, strug¬ 
gling in the pebbles of the river-bed. 

Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie’s 
bad men were discussing the wisdom of carry¬ 
ing off the child and the girl, a lookout fired 
two shots. 

“What have I said?” shouted Din Ma- 
hammed. “There is the warning ! The pul - 
tun 16 are out already and are coming across 
the plain ! Get away! Let us not be seen 
with the boy ! ” 

******* 

“ The wegiment is coming,” said Wee Wil¬ 
lie Winkie, confidently, to Miss Allardyce, 
“and it’s all wight. Don’t cry ! ” 

He needed the advice himself, for, ten min¬ 
utes later, when his father came up, he was 
weeping bitterly with his head in Miss Allar- 
dyce’s lap. 

16. An Indian term for a regiment of infantry. 

193 



mec TNltlUe mnfcfe 


And the men of the 195th carried him 
home with shouts and rejoicings; and Coppy, 
who had ridden a horse into a lather, met 
him, and, to his intense disgust, kissed him 
openly in the presence of the men. 

But there was balm for his dignity. His 
father assured him that not only would the 
breaking of arrest be condoned, but that the 
good-conduct badge would be restored as 
soon as his mother could sew it on his 
blouse-sleeve. Miss Allardyce had told the 
Colonel a story that made him proud of 
his son. 

“She belonged to you, Coppy,” said Wee 
Willie Winkie, indicating Miss Allardyce with 
a grimy forefinger. “ I knew she didn’t ought 
to go acwoss ve wiver, and I knew ve weg- 
iment would come to me if I sent Jack 
home.” 

“You’re a hero, Winkie,” said Coppy — 
“a pukka 17 hero ! ” 

“I don’t know what vat means,” said Wee 
Willie Winkie; “but you mustn’t call me 
Winkie any no more. I’m Percival Will’am 
Will’ams.” 

And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie 
enter into his manhood. 


17. Pukka — perfect. 


I94 






RUDYARD KIPLING 

















. 














































































t 






















applied flDetbobs 

for 

teaching IReabing ant) ^Literature 







IReaMnQ for tbe Storp 


Reading is for one’s self or for others. A 
person reads for himself in order that he may 
obtain pleasure and inspiration, or for informa¬ 
tion. He reads for others to give pleasure, in¬ 
spiration or instruction, and he accomplishes 
his purposes in proportion to the expressive¬ 
ness with which he reads. Every teacher, then, 
is concerned with both silent and oral reading. 
But usually he teaches the pupil to read chiefly in 
order that the latter may learn the lessons assigned 
him from text-books. Occasionally only, the 
instruction is for the purpose of giving the 
pupil amusement and recreation. 

When a boy grows up, if he is a business man, 
he reads the newspaper to gratify his curiosity 
and to assist him in his occupation, whatever that 
may be. Sometimes he reads articles in the cur¬ 
rent magazines, but rarely more. The girl be¬ 
comes a woman and the cares of the family or the 
demands of society, or perchance the claims of 
the work by which she earns her livelihood, per¬ 
mit her to skim merely the short stories in the 
periodicals or dip into the last much-discussed 
novel. She has ceased to read for improvement 
and has never acquired the power to obtain rest 
197 



2HppUeD /iftetboDs 


and pleasure from good literature. To a con¬ 
siderable degree the schools are at fault for this. 
If children were taught how to get the most en¬ 
joyment from their reading, they would not so 
readily abandon it. If older persons would train 
themselves to read as they should, life would be¬ 
come delightful in this age of cheap books and 
inexpensive magazines. 

People need not be afraid to read the things 
they really enjoy. Improvement does not 
necessarily come from delving into dry old 
tomes of history or from struggling with science 
and philosophy. It is not an unusual thing for 
a father to urge his son to read Gibbon’s Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire or Macaulay’s 
Essays, to the exclusion of the entertaining stories 
of adventure that the lad covets. The inde¬ 
pendent adult reader, anxious to improve him¬ 
self, enters upon an elaborate and systematic 
course of reading and abandons it in weariness 
and despair before he has fairly begun. Enjoy¬ 
ment is no sin; it is the basis of all rational 
improvement. The trained mind may find the 
keenest pleasure in abstract arguments or in the 
discussion of abstruse problems; but for most 
readers, particularly those who are young or 
whose education is to a certain extent limited, 
pleasure must come from a direct appeal to the 
emotions. Good literature appeals to the sym¬ 
pathy of mankind and cultivates courage, bravery, 
198 


TReaDing for tbe Ston? 


patriotism and the finer feelings. The reading 
matter, then, which a teacher should use in the 
earlier years of a child’s education should be such 
as will excite his feelings and rouse his sensibili¬ 
ties in such a way that they become important 
factors in the formation of correct and discrim¬ 
inating taste. 

For this purpose, fiction in many of its forms is 
most effective, and, if properly read, nothing is 
more stimulating or more liable to lead to higher 
effort in more abstract lines. But, “if properly 
read” is a significant phrase, for more depends 
upon the manner of reading than upon the 
matter that is read. Too often the exciting inci¬ 
dents, the chief lines of the plot leading up to the 
thrilling climax, are all that attract the reader of a 
story. But it is possible so to teach children that 
they will not only get all the pleasure that the 
train of incidents gives, but will find in the story 
much that will assist them in interpreting even the 
dry details of their other lessons. 

It is for the purpose of showing how reading 
may be so taught as to produce the best results 
that Applied Methods of Teaching Reading and 
Literature is included in English and American 
Literature. A section on methods will be found 
as a part of each volume, and combined, these sec¬ 
tions will give complete directions for teaching 
children to read in all the great departments of 
literature. 


199 


Exercise I 


METHOD FOR A STORY 


IFntroDuctfon 

1. Teacher's Preparation. Always read the 
lesson before you assign it, and be sure you can 
pronounce every word correctly and that you 
know its meaning. Master the significance of the 
figures of speech and study the phraseology so that 
when questions are asked by your class you will 
not destroy their confidence by your hesitation. 
Study the outlines which are here given and pre¬ 
pare similar ones for the new selection you are to 
present. Do not feel obliged always to write your 
outlines, but be sure that you have them thor¬ 
oughly in mind. Nothing destroys the interest of 
a class more completely than poorly organized 
presentation. 

2. Length of Lessons. You can not expect 
your pupils to do everything that is indicated in one 
lesson, or in two lessons, even. Their advance¬ 
ment and individual attainments must govern you. 
If the children grow tired of the piece before you 
are through with it, leave it and go on to another, 
where you can follow the same line. After a 
while you can bring them back to the first piece 


200 



/iftetboD foe a Store 


and their interest will revive. If it is adapted to 
their age and acquirements, they will be glad to 
read it as long as you can bring up new things 
in it. 

3. First Assignment on the Selection. If 
the pupils can read reasonably well, tell them to 
read the story through before they come to the 
class next time. If they find words they do not 
know and of which they can not themselves find 
the meaning, they may pass over them and read 
on to the end. When the children come to the 
class they will know enough about the story to 
understand your questions and your succeeding 
assignments. 

4. Character. Following this paragraph is a 
short list of traits of character and their opposites. 
This list is meant to be suggestive to you. You 
will not, of course, give it at once to your pupils, 
but from time to time, as traits of character are 
found in the persons in the stories you read, you 
will jot them down and keep the list where it can 
be seen by the pupils at any time. No one story 
will furnish all the traits, and the list may some¬ 
times grow slowly. If you use the method of 
questioning in bringing out these traits of charac¬ 
ter, your pupils will come to feel a proprietary 
interest in the list and will use it willingly. 

No attempt has been made to classify the traits, 
and you will observe that they are not wholly dis¬ 
tinct ; often two may be very similar. The oppo- 


201 


HppUeD /iftetboDs 


sites are not always exact opposites. You will 
wish to have your pupils classify these traits of 
character as good or bad or indifferent. It will 
be an easy matter for them to notice these traits 
in themselves. You may find an excellent oppor¬ 
tunity to offer a kind and helpful suggestion to 
somebody who shows in himself an unpleasant 
trait of character that is brought out in a story. 
Such suggestions, however, should be private 
between yourself and the pupil, unless you have 
your class so well in hand that you can speak of 
such things without giving offense. Here follows 
the list: 


active 

passive 

generous 

selfish 

affectionate cold 

heroic 

cowardly 

agreeable 

disagreeable 

honest 

dishonest 

ambitious 

satisfied 

joyful 

solemn 

brave 

timid 

loving 

hating 

conceited 

modest 

obedient 

disobedient 

cruel 

kind 

proud 

humble 

excitable 

calm 

revengeful forgiving 

faithful 

false 

serious 

jolly 

fretful 

serene 




5. Emotions or Feelings. As you are work¬ 
ing with your class under this topic, you will need 
to be skillful in adapting your study to the age 
and acquirements of your pupils. You will work 
in the manner that was suggested in the preceding 
paragraph and prepare your list in the same way. 


202 


/nbetboD for a Storg 

The suggestive list which follows makes no 
attempt to distinguish between feelings and emo¬ 
tions, or to classify them. You will find it inter¬ 
esting to point out contrasts to your pupils and to 
call attention to the difference between an all-ab¬ 
sorbing emotion, such as fear, and the milder 
feeling shown in the love for knowledge. Watch 
for the following: 


anger 

pam 

beauty 

patriotism 

companionship 

perplexity 

curiosity 

pleasure 

enjoyment 

rage 

fear 

resentment 

fury 

reverence 

gaiety 

self-approval 

happiness 

self-confidence 

joy 

self-esteem 

love 

self-satisfaction 

love of approbation 

spite 

love of beauty 

sympathy 

love of knowledge 
mirth 

wonder 


6. The Outlines. The outlines follow the 
line of thought described in The Study of Fiction , 
on page 13 of this volume. That is a section 
you should study carefully to get a clear idea of 
the purpose of your work with children. Let the 
outlines here be your guide. Do not furnish 
203 


HpplieD /iftetbobs 


them ready-made to your pupils. Develop each 
step in them by question and direction, helping 
the children when necessary, but requiring them 
to find facts and references by research in the 
story. In their investigations they will read the 
story many times, and each time with a special 
purpose. Keep that special purpose to the front. 
Do not let the children wander off into fruitless 
talk about other things the story contains. 

This exercise and the next, at least, should be 
read carefully, whether you intend to teach the 
selections or not, because these outlines are more 
complete than succeeding ones and are filled with 
valuable suggestions applicable to all lessons. 


Ifoow HnDg Saves tbe TTratn 1 

FANNY FERN 2 

I. Andy Moore was a short, freckled, little 
country boy, tough as a pine knot. Some¬ 
times he wore a cap and sometimes he did not. 
He was not at all particular about that; his 
shaggy red hair, he thought, protected his 
head well enough. 

1. This selection is printed on page 153 of Book Four of the 
Cyr Readers by Grades , published by Ginn & Co. A somewhat 
modified version is printed in Baldwin's Readers , Third Year, pub¬ 
lished by the American Book Company. 

2. Sara Payson Willis was born in 1812 and died in 1872. She 
was a sister of the poet N. P. Willis and became the wife of James 
Parton, the historian. Under the name of Fanny Fern she wrote 
a great many charming stories for children. 

204 




Ibow HnDg SaveD tbe Grain 


2. As for what people would think of it,— 
he did not live in a city where one’s shoe-lac¬ 
ings are noticed ; his home was in the country, 
and a very wild, rocky country it was. He 
knew much more about beavers, rattlesnakes, 
and birds’ eggs than he did about fashions. 

3. He liked to sit rocking on the top of a 
great, tall tree, or to stand on a high hill, 
where the wind almost took him off his feet. 
Andy’s house was a rough shanty on the side 
of the hill; it was built of mud, peat, and logs, 
with holes for windows. There was nothing 
very pleasant there. 

4. Near his father’s house there was a rail¬ 
road track ; and Andy often watched the black 
engine as it came puffing past, belching 
out great clouds of steam and smoke, and 
screeching through the valleys and under the 
hills like a mad thing. Although it went by 
the house every day, yet he never wished to 
ride in it; he had been content with lying on 
the sand bank, watching it disappear in the 
distance, leaving a great wreath of smoke curl¬ 
ing round the tree tops. 

5. One day, as Andy was strolling across 
the track, he saw that there was something 
wrong about it. He did not know much about 
railroad tracks, because he was as yet quite a 

205 


?tppUeD /iftetboDs 


little lad ; but the rails seemed to be wrong 
somehow, and Andy had heard of cars being 
thrown off by such things. 

6. Just then he heard a low, distant noise. 
Dear, dear ! the cars were coming then ! He 
was but a little boy, but perhaps he could stop 
them in some way ; at any rate there was no¬ 
body else there to do it. 

7. Andy never thought that he might be 
killed himself ; but he went and stood straight 
in the middle of the track, just before the bad 
place on it that I have told you about, and 
stretched out his little arms as far apart as he 
could. On, on came the cars, louder and 
louder. The engineer saw the boy on the 
track, and whistled for him to get out of the 
way. Andy never moved a hair. 

8. Again the engine whistled. Andy might 
have been made of stone for all the no¬ 
tice he took of it. Then the engineer, of 
course, had to stop the train, saying something 
in his anger to the boy as he did so, ‘ ‘ for not 
getting out of the way. ” But when Andy 
pointed to the track, and the man saw how the 
brave little fellow had not only saved his life, 
but the lives of all his passengers, his scolding 
changed to blessing very quickly. 

9. Everybody rushed out to see what a hor- 

206 


Ibow 2Hnd£ Saved tbe Grain 


rible death they had escaped. Had the cars 
rushed over the bad track, they would have 
been hurled headlong down the steep bank 
into the river. Ladies kissed Andy’s rough, 
freckled face, and cried over him ; and, the 
men, as they looked at their wives and chil¬ 
dren, wiped their eyes and said, ‘ ‘ God bless 
the boy. ’ ’ 

And that is not all: they took out their 
purses and made up a large sum of money for 
him ; not that they could ever repay the service 
he had done them,—they knew that,—but to 
show him in some way besides in mere words 
that they felt grateful. 

io. Now that boy had presence of mind. 
Good, brave little Andy! The passengers all 
wrote down his name—Andy Moore—and the 
place he lived in ; and if you wish to know 
what was done for him, I will tell you. 

He was sent to school, and, in after years, 
to college, and these people whose lives he 
saved paid his bills, and helped to make a olace 
in the world for him. 

©utltne 

i. Teacher’s Preparation. As you read the 
story for the first time consider the following: 

“ Tough as a pine knot.” Why tine knot ? Is 
207 




HpptteD Methods 


not a birch knot tougher? Your pupils may be 
able to help you here. If a birch knot is tougher, 
has the author used a poor figure ? The pupils 
may think so—and you can agree with them ; or 
you may feel that tough as a pine knot was so fre¬ 
quently in use in conversation among early settlers 
in New England where pines grew, that it really 
has become a very forceful expression. 

“Never moved a hair.” In what is the strength 
of the figure ? Would never moved a muscle or never 
moved a hand be as strong ? Why not ? 

Be critical yourself. There is no harm in 
showing your pupils that you are critical. For 
instance, is there not something wrong in the 
sentence, “ Everybody rushed out to see what a 
horrible death they had escaped ”? Everybody is 
singular. Why then use they ? Is there a pro¬ 
noun you can use correctly ? If not, will it not be 
better to say all rushed out , or to change the 
structure of the sentence ? 

2. The Persons. This story is really very 
simple, and the people who appear in it are few in 
number. They are Andy Moore ; his father ; the 
engineer, and the passengers, both ladies and 
gentlemen. All the interest centers in Andy. 
His father is mentioned but once, and none of the 
passengers is given any personality. The en¬ 
gineer shows himself a little. Draw attention to 
the fact that two persons we naturally expect to 
appear are not even mentioned—Andy’s mother 
208 


Ibow HnD£ Save*) tbe Grain 

and the conductor. Encourage the pupils to talk 
about such things. 

Present the hero, Andy Moore, in accordance 
with the following outline: 

a. Body. 

Short (par. i). 

Tough as a pine knot (par. i). So you 
know he was a big-boned, stocky, little fellow. 

b. Head and Face. 

Shaggy red hair (par. ,i). 

Freckled (par. i and 9). 

Rough face (par. 9). We may infer from 
his acts that it was an intelligent face, with high 
forehead, bright, sparkling eyes, and a firm jaw. 

c. Clothing. Sometimes a. cap and sometimes 
not (par. 1). Nothing more is said, so you may 
clothe him as you like. Let the pupils use their 
imagination and picture the little chap vividly— 
bareheaded, barefooted, no coat, waist torn, 
breeches ragged and held up by one suspender. 

3. The Plot. a. Incidents in the development: 

(1) Andy sees something wrong in the railroad. 

(2) He hears the train coming and knows an 
accident might happen. 

(3) He stands in front of the approaching train 
and stretches his arms far apart. 

(4) The train whistles to drive him off. 

(5) He keeps his place and the train stops. 

(6) The engineer and other men bless him and 
the ladies kiss him and cry over him, 

2°9 


HppUeb /iftetboDs 

(7) The passengers make up a large sum of 
money for him. 

(8) Afterwards the passengers pay his bills at 
school and college. 

b. Summary : A boy seeing a fault in a railway 
track, stops a train and saves the lives of the pas¬ 
sengers, who reward him. 

4. Character and Development. Andy 
Moore. 

(1) Careless of appearance (par. 1, 2). 

(2) Self-reliant. He found his own amuse¬ 
ments. What were they ? 

(3) Daring. Rocking on the top of a great tall 
tree , etc. (par. 3). 

(4) Dreamy. Content with lying on the sand 
bank f etc. (par. 4). 

(5) Observant. Knew about beavers, etc. 
(par. 2); saw defect in rails (par. 5). 

(6) Intelligent. Recognized the possibility of 
danger (par. 5). 

(7) Unselfish. Wished to save the train (par. 
6); never thought of being killed himself (par. 7). 

(8) Courageous. Was not frightened by the 
train nor by the whistle (par. 7). 

(9) Brave (par. 8 and 10). 

(10) Good (par. 10). 

(n) Had presence of mind (par. 10). 

(12) Silent, not talkative. He pointed to the 
track (par. 8). 

There are other traits of character manifested 


210 


Ibow SaveD tbe Grata 


by the boy, but those mentioned are varied and 
numerous enough for such a lesson. Call the 
attention of the class to the fact that the author 
tells you of but three [(9), (10) and (11)]; all the 
rest we infer from his actions. 

Use the imagination of the children still further 
by raising questions for them to answer. Accept 
no answers as good ones that are not borne out by 
the character of Andy as shown in the story. Yet 
remember always that the children have different 
points of view and have not your store of knowl¬ 
edge to interpret by. Try these questions: 

a. How did Andy look and act when the women 
kissed him and cried over him ? 

b. How did Andy act when the engineer said 
something in his anger ? 

c. Was Andy a bright boy when he went to 
school? Was he a hard worker? Did the other 
boys like him ? 

d. What kind of a place in the world did they 
make for him ? 

5. Emotions and Feelings. With young 
pupils, such, for instance, as will enjoy this story, 
you should deal only with those emotions which 
they can understand and appreciate. Yet teach 
them to recognize by the acts of Andy what emo¬ 
tions and feelings swayed him at different times, 
and then lead the children to see what their own 
feelings were. There are comparatively few things 
of this kind to consider in this selection. 


211 


HppUeO /nbetboDs 


a. Andy shows : 

Happiness (par. 1-4). 

Love for nature (par. 2 and 4). 

Love for man (par. 6-8). 

No fear whatever (par. 7 and 8). 

b. The engineer shows : 

Feeling of responsibility (par. 7 and 8). 

Respect for life (par. 8). 

Anger (par. 8). 

Joy and gratitude (par. 8). 

c. The reader may feel: 

Pleasure in the picture of the happy, 
healthy boy. 

Admiration for his courage. 

Fear for his safety. Which predominates, 
fear for the child's safety or for the 
safety of the passengers ? Why ? 

Joy at their deliverance. 

Sympathy with the grateful passengers. 

Affection for Andy and interest in his 
career. 

6 . Scenes. This is a story for country chil¬ 
dren particularly. You may have to help city 
children to see the pictures, but it will not be 
difficult. Paint freely with words and let loose 
your enthusiasm, after you have drawn what you 
can from the pupils. Use your imagination 
freely, but be careful to contradict none of the 
statements in the story. 

a. General. Imagine yourself facing the scene 


212 


Ibow HnD£ SavcO tbe Grain 

of the incident. There in the background is a 
high, wind-swept hill; on its summit are a few 
weather-beaten trees; on its side nearer us is one 
great , tall tree , or more. In a little hollow, still 
nearer, is a rough shanty of mud, peat and logs with 
holes for windows . The ground in front is beaten 
down and littered with rubbish. A small wood- 
pile, a rickety pig pen and an ill-kept garden are 
near the hut. Closer to us, at the foot of the 
hill, is a railway track coming from a valley at 
the right, running across in front of us on an 
embankment that leads to a bridge across a river 
which we see flowing between wooded banks at our 
left. Such is the scene in which the story is laid. 

Ask some of the pupils to draw a map of the 
scene, locating the hut, the track, the hill, the 
river and the trees. Ask others to draw the house 
and others to show Andy stopping the train. Do 
not laugh at crude drawings. If you show in¬ 
terest you can create interest, and the children will 
be learning to express themselves. 

b. Special. Now bring life into the scene and 
make the climax of the story vivid and interest¬ 
ing. Fill in details to make the events dramatic. 
Picture the broken rail and the danger of an acci¬ 
dent. Show the boy, the train, the engineer, the 
excited passengers rushing out of the train and 
gathering about the boy. Imagine yourself there, 
grow enthusiastic and carry your pupils with you. 
Do not overdo the matter, but when your pupils 
213 


Applies flftetboDs 


have become aroused, call upon them to read 
paragraphs 5 to 9 inclusive. They will forget 
they are in the schoolroom, will see Andy between 
themselves and the pages of the book, and will 
throw some expression into their reading. 

7. The Purpose and the Lesson. If you have 
carried your work out successfully thus far, you 
will not need to say much about the lesson of the 
story. It has taught itself, and every little heart 
will respond to the heroism of the boy’s noble act. 
You may possibly call upon some of the children 
to tell what they think of the story, but beware 
of spoiling a good impression. 

8. The Final Reading. As a closing exercise 
have the pupils read the story aloud from be¬ 
ginning to end. Arrange beforehand the order 
in which they shall read so that you will not need 
to interrupt them; allow no criticisms until the 
story is finished. If anyone hesitates over a word 
or fails to give the meaning, help him quickly and 
easily without destroying the interest of others by 
delay or your own impatient voice. If you have 
taken pains to use the words of the story fre¬ 
quently [and have asked the pupils to use them 
often, there will be little hesitation and you will 
be delighted with the expressiveness of the reading. 


214 


FALCON CRAG, DERWENTWATER 











































































































•• 
















































































Exercise II 


METHOD FOR A STORY 


Ube xaal^ Bucfclina 1 

ADAPTED FROM HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 2 

1. In the country the summer weather was 
fine and warm. The meadows were filled with 
haystacks, the pretty heads of the oats were 
waving in the breezes and the corn was ripen¬ 
ing in the bright sunshine. In the deep woods 
around the fields were pools of water, shaded 
and dark, where fishes and waterfowl loved to 
stay. 

2. A cozy old farmhouse stood near a 
deep river, along whose bank grew great bur¬ 
docks and tall rushes. So big and high were 


1. A different version of this story is printed in Stepping Stones to 
Literature, A Third Reader , published by Silver, Burdett & Co. 

2. Hans Christian Anderson was a famous story teller who lived in 
Denmark from 1805 to 1875. He was a big, ungainly man, who 
thought himself handsome and who dressed extravagantly. He 
wrote poetry and thought it very fine, but everybody now knows him 
best because of his wonderful stories for children. His own mind 
was simple and he had so childish a way of looking at everything in 
nature that the children of every nation love his stories as the older 
people love Shakespere. 


2I 5 




HppUeD /ifcetboDs 

they that a child could stand upright and still 
be entirely hidden. 

3. Close to the bank of the river an old 
duck sat on her nest, safely hidden from every¬ 
body. She had covered the eggs for a long 
time now and was growing very weary. It 
seemed as though the eggs would never hatch, 
and she was lonesome, for visitors did not 
come often to see her. The rest of the ducks 
swam in the river and thought it was hard 
work to climb the slippery bank and poor fun 
to keep her company. 

4. But at last the mother duck had her 
reward. One shell cracked a little, then 
another and another, and soon a living bird 
came from each egg and lifted its head crying, 
“Peep, peep. ” 

5. “ Quack, quack,” answered the mother. 
Then all the little ones tried to quack and rose 
up in the nest and looked about them at the 
green leaves. This pleased the old duck, for 
she knew that green was good for their eyes. 

6. ‘ ‘ How large the world is, ’ ’ said the lit¬ 
tle ducks. They could not see far but the nest 
seemed very big after they had been so long in 
the shells. 

‘ ‘ Why children, ’ ’ said the mother, ‘ ‘ this 
is not the whole world. It goes out to the 
216 


Gbe IflglE Duckling 


big river one way, then by the farmhouse in 
another direction and then over into the par¬ 
son’s field. But I never have been so far as 
that.” 

7. “Are you all out of the shells ?” she 
asked as she stood up. 

“ Oh, no, not all yet. There is one big egg 
that still lies over there. Must I keep sitting 
here longer ? Oh, I am so tired. ’ ’ But again 
faithfully she sat down upon the egg. 

8. A friendly old duck waddled along to 
pay her a visit and said, “ Well, how are you 
getting on ? ’ * 

‘ ‘ Oh, all my eggs excepting one have 
hatched, but that one does take so long. It 
will not break. But are not these the dearest 
little ducklings you ever saw? They are the 
very image of their father. ’ ’ 

9. The wise old duck said, ‘ ‘ Let me look 
at that big egg. I sat for a long time once on 
turkey’s eggs and after they hatched I could 
not do anything with the young ones. They 
would not go near the water. . I tried and 
tried, but could not lead them near it. Let 
me look at the egg you are sitting on. Just 
as I thought. That is a turkey’s egg. You 
better leave it there and teach your own 
children to swim.” 


217 


BppUeD /iftetboDg 


10. But the mother duck said, “I think I 
will sit here a little longer. A few days will 
not tire me much more and I have been here 
so long I shall not notice it.” 

“Well, just as you please,” said the old 
duck as she waddled away. 

11. At last the mother duck heard another 
“Peep, peep,” under her wings and, looking 
down, she saw that the great egg had broken. 
It was a very big and ugly duckling that looked 
up at her. “ He certainly is very large,” she 
said. ‘ ‘ He does not look like any one of the 
others. I wonder if he is a young turkey. 
Well, he will go into the water, even if I have 
to push him in.” 

12. The next day as the sun was shining 
bright and warm, the mother duck took her 
whole family down to the water for a swim. 
She cried, “quack, quack,” and jumped in 
with a big splash. All the little ducklings 
jumped in after her and the water closed over 
their heads. But they quickly came up and 
swam joyfully around, splashing the water and 
ducking their little heads. Not one was miss¬ 
ing. Even the big, ugly duckling was in the 
water with the rest. 

13. “ He is not a turkey. He is surely my 
child, and if you look at him, he does not 

218 


Gbe mg \y HJucftUng 


seem so very ugly. He swims finely, too, and 
holds himself up very straight and brave. ’ ’ 

14. When the first lesson in swimming was 
over, the good old mother duck said, * ‘Quack, 
quack, follow me to the duck yard, but keep 
very close so that you don’t get lost. You 
must watch out for the big cat. She may get 
you. ’ * 

15. The ducklings all followed obediently, 
and when they came to the farmyard they saw 
two families of ducks fighting over an eel’s 
head, and while they were fighting the duck¬ 
lings saw the big cat come up and carry off the 
eel’s head. 

16. ‘ * See, children, that is the way of the 
world,” said the duck mother. “Now use 
your legs and see how well you can act. 
When you come to the big old duck over there, 
bow your heads. She is a Spanish duck, and 
very proud. See, she has a red rag tied to 
her leg. That is a great honor for a duck, and 
something to be proud of. The farmer is 
afraid to lose her and so has marked her with 
a red rag. Now walk quickly, turn your toes 
in, not out, just as I do. See ? So. ’ ’ 

17. So all the little ducks bowed their heads 
and said, “Quack, quack.” But the other 
ducks laughed aloud at them. “Will you 

219 


HppUeD /ifcetboDs 


look here !” said one ; “ just as though there 
are not enough of us already! But here comes 
another brood. And look at that ugly duck¬ 
ling! He never can stay here.” Then she 
flew at him and struck him hard with her bill 
in the neck. 

“Let him alone,” said his mother. “He 
has not harmed you.” 

“ No. That is true; but he is big and ugly 
and awkward and needs to be bitten.” 

18. Then the old Spanish duck spoke up 
and said, “You may feel proud. The others 
are beautiful children. Only that one needs 
to be improved.” 

“ Now I never can do that,” said the mother 
duck. “I know he is not pretty, but he is 
good and he swims finely with the others ; I 
think even better than any of them. I wish 
he were not so big. I think (he stayed too 
long in the egg. I cannot help that.” Then 
she stroked his feathers lovingly and said, “I 
think he will grow up strong and take care of 
himself. He is a good duckling, if he is ugly. ” 

19. The old Spanish duck answered, “Well, 
the other ducklings are good enough, so you 
may make yourself at home; and if you find an 
eel’s head, bring it to me.” 

20. The ducklings tried to make themselves 


220 


Gbe *GlglE Duelling 


at home, but the ugly one was bitten and 
pushed and laughed at by all the ducks and the 
hens and the other barnyard fowls. ‘‘He is 
too big, ’ * they all said. The big turkey-cock, 
who always wore his spurs and thought he was 
a king, puffed himself out like a ship with full 
sails and flew straight at the duckling, who ran 
crying to his mother. 

21. This all happened in the first day, but 
afterwards it grew worse and worse. Every¬ 
body drove the poor duckling about, and even 
his brothers and sisters turned against him. 
One of them said, “Oh, you ugly old thing. 
I wish the cat might catch you.” The ducks 
bit him, the hens pecked him and the girl who 
came out to feed the poultry kicked him away 
with her foot. 

22. At last he could not stand it any longer, 
and one night he ran away. He ran for hours, 
it seemed to him, but finally he came to a 
great marsh where there were some wild ducks 
living. Here he stayed all night, tired and 
frightened. 

23. The wild ducks did not see him till 
morning, and then they said, “What kind of a 
thing are you ? ’ * The poor duckling could 
only bow politely to all of them. He was too 
much frightened to speak. 


Applied /ifcetboDs 


24. Tnen they said, “You are a very ugly 
creature, but you can stay here if you do not 
marry into our family.” The poor ugly duck¬ 
ling had never thought of marrying into any¬ 
body’s family. All he wanted to do was to lie 
among the rushes and drink the water from 
the marsh. He was very grateful and for two 
whole days was almost happy. 

25. Just then two saucy young wild geese 
flew into the marsh and said, ‘ ‘ Look at this 
duckling. He is so ugly that we like him. We 
will take him with us. He can fly with us over 
to another marsh as fine as this, where per¬ 
haps he can find a wild goose as ugly as he is. ’ * 

26. They had just risen from the marsh 
when, “Crack! Crack! ” went two land guns, 
and both geese fell dead. The hunters had 
come and the smoke of their guns was rolling 
in clouds over the water. The poor duckling 
was frightened out of his little wits, and did 
not know which way to turn. 

27. While he was shivering with fright a 
big dog, with open jaws, fiery eyes and tongue 
hanging from his mouth, came rushing up. 
The duckling gave up all hope, but the big 
dog only poked him sharply with his nose, 
showed his teeth and went away without 
hurting him. 


222 


Gbe Buckling 


28. “Now I am glad I am so ugly. Even 
a dog will not bite me,” said the duckling. 
The hunters never found him, for he had 
learned now to lie quite still while they 
stayed by. 

29. When night came on and the hunters 
went back home with their game bags well 
filled, the ugly duckling flew away from the 
marsh as fast as he could. He crossed a field 
and a meadow and a big river, and then a fierce 
storm came up. The wind was so strong that 
he could not fly against it, and he came down 
to the ground near a tiny cottage in the edge 
of the woods. 

30. This cottage was a queer little place 
and so old it seemed about to fall down, but 
it kept standing because it did not know which 
way to fall first. The duckling was afraid and 
wanted to run away, but the wind blew so 
hard and so much rain fell that he had to go 
through the open door into the house for 
shelter. 

31. A funny old woman lived in the cottage 
all alone with her cat and her hen. She called 
the cat Little Son and the hen Chicken Short- 
legs. The cat could raise his back and purr 
sweetly, but if his fur was stroked the wrong way 
he could throw fiery sparks out of it. The hen 

223 


HppUeD /iftetboDs 


laid very good eggs, and the old woman loved 
her as though she were her own child. 

32. When morning came they all saw the 
strange duckling. The hen clucked, the cat 
purred and the old lady spoke. * ‘ What is 
this ? ’ ’ she said. She was so old that she could 
not see very well and so she thought a fine, fat 
duck had come into the house. “ Now that 
is a prize,” she said, “and I will soon have 
some duck’s eggs.” 

33. So she fed the duckling and kept it for 
three long weeks, but no eggs came. The cat 
and the hen thought they owned the house ; 
one was master and the other mistress. They 
always said, “We and the world,” for they 
thought they were half of the world, and the 
better half, too. The duckling knew this 
was not so, but the cat and the hen would 
not listen to him when he tried to tell 
them so. 

34. “Can you lay eggs ?” the hen asked. 

“No.” 

* ‘ Then please be so good as to hold your 
tongue. ’ ’ 

35. The cat said, “Can you raise the 
feathers on your back and purr and send out 
sparks ?’ ’ 

“No.” 


224 


Gbe UlglE Buckling 

“Then please keep still when sensible people 
talk. ” 

36. So again the duckling was lonesome and 
sad and sat long hours moping in the corner 
alone. One day the sun shone bright and the 
fresh air came in through the open door. It 
made him think about the water and he felt so 
great a wish to go in swimming that he could 
not help telling the hen. 

“How foolish,” she said. “You are lazy 
and have nothing to do and you think non¬ 
sense. If you could lay eggs or raise your fur 
or purr, it would be all right. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But it is delightful to swim and to dive 
down to the bottom and feel the water close 
over your head,” said the duckling. 

37. “Yes, that must be fine, ’ ’ answered the 
hen. “You are out of your senses. Ask the 
cat. He knows all about such things. Ask 
him how he would like to swim and dive down 
to the bottom. I will not tell you what I 
think. Ask our mistress, the old lady, for she 
knows more than anybody else in the world. 
And do you think she would like to swim and 
let the water close over her head ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, you do not understand me,” said the 
duckling. 

38. “So we do not understand you? I won- 

225 


HppUeD /iftetboDs 


der who could understand you. Do you think 
you know more than the old lady and the cat 
—I won’t say anything about myself? Now 
don’t think such nonsense. We let you 
in here and you should be happy. The room 
is warm and you have wise company who may 
teach you something. But when you say such 
silly things your company is not pleasant. I 
am telling you this for your own good. What 
I say may not be pleasant to you, but that is a 
proof of my friendship. Now I tell you to lay 

eggs and to learn to purr as soon as ever you 

__ > > 

can. 

39. The duckling sighed and said to himself, 

* ‘ I believe I must go out into the world again 
at the very first chance. ’ ’ And so he went and 
found his way once more to the water, where 
he could swim and dive, but all the other ani¬ 
mals still turned away from him, he was so big 
and ugly. 

40. A long time passed and the leaves on 
the trees turned from green to red and gold 
and brown. Then they fell off and the wind 
caught them and whirled them about. The 
air grew cold and snow flakes and hail came. 
The ravens sat on the bank and cried, ‘ ‘Croak, 
croak. ” It was late in the autumn and it made 
one shiver to look at the world. The poor 

226 


Gbe TUglB ©ucftling 


duckling grew more lonesome and sad and be¬ 
gan to be cold at night. 

41. One evening, just at sunset, he saw 
some strange and beautiful birds come out of 
the bushes. They had long, graceful necks 
and soft, white, shining feathers. As they flew 
over him he whirled in the water, raised his 
neck high in the air and uttered a strange cry, 
one that he had never made before. He tried 
to follow the beautiful birds, but could not, and 
when they were out of sight he grew more 
sad and lonely and spent long hours wishing he 
might be as lovely as they were. 

42. Then winter came in earnest and the air 
grew colder and colder. The leaves were all 
gone from the trees and the boughs were cov¬ 
ered with snow. The water was freezing 
around the edges of the pool. Every night the 
poor fellow had to beat the water with his 
wings and swim around all the time to keep the 
water from freezing. One night it was colder 
than usual, and the ice grew so hard that he 
was unable to break it. At last, worn out, he 
lay still and helpless, frozen in the ice. 

43. Very early in the morning a poor man 
came by and saw the poor bird, caught in the 
wintry trap. He broke the ice with his 
wooden shoe, picked up the ugly duckling 

227 


flpplfeD /iftetbobs 

and carried him home to his wife and chil¬ 
dren. 

44. The warm room soon brought the duck¬ 
ling back to life, and the children wanted to 
play with him. But he had never seen children 
before and was so badly frightened that he 
started up in terror. He flew into the milk 
pan and splashed the milk all over the room. 
The woman clapped her hands and started 
after him, which frightened him more and 
more. He fell into the meal tub and then flew 
out again. How funny he looked, his feathers 
all covered with flour and water ! 

45. The woman screamed louder than ever, 
chased him about the room and struck at him 
with the tongs. The children screamed and 
laughed till they cried and raced after him 
with their mother. But they had forgotten 
to close the door. The duckling saw the 
opening and was able to fly out and hide him¬ 
self in some bushes. 

46. But I must not make you sad trying to 
tell you all the poor duckling suffered that cold, 
hard winter. He lived through it some way, 
and when spring came he found himself lying 
one evening among the rushes in a marsh. 
The sun was warm and bright, the birds sang 
around him and he felt almost happy. Be- 

228 


Ebe Wgls 2>uckUng 


sides, he found out that his wings were strong 
and as he flapped them against his sides he 
rose high into the air. Never before had he 
been able to go so far. 

47. After he had been flying for some time 
he looked down and saw a great garden 
through which flowed a beautiful stream. 
Trees bent over it and the grass grew down to 
its very edge. How fresh and delightful it all 
seemed! Here he thought he would stop. Just 
as he lit in a beautiful pool of water, he saw 
three splendid swans come sailing along. They 
rustled their feathers and curved their delicate 
necks, and then the duckling knew they were 
the birds that he had seen and loved once 
before. 

48. It all made him feel strangely unhappy, 
“But I shall fly over to them,” he said r 
“They will kill me because I am so ugly. 
That is just as well. It is better to be killed 
by swans than to be bitten by ducks, beaten 
by hens, scolded by cats and pushed about by 
the girl who feeds the chickens. Then it is 
better to be killed now in this beautiful place 
than to starve again in the cold winter.” 

49. He did not spend much time thinking 
this way, but swam quickly along near to the 
beautiful swans. Wonderful ! They all rushed 

229 


Applies /Ubetbo&s 


over to meet him. ‘‘Only kill me,” said the 
poor duckling, “and be quick about it.” 

50. He hung his head and cast his eyes 
toward the water, waiting for death. But 
what strange thing did he see in the clear 
water? It was surely his own picture; but, 
wonder of wonders, he was no longer an ugly 
duckling. He was himself a beautiful white 
swan. 

51. You see it is not so bad to be born in a 
duck’s nest in a farmyard if one can be hatched 
from a swan’s egg. He knew now that it was 
better for him to have suffered all the sorrow 
and trouble, for now he could enjoy his new 
happiness so much the better. And it was real 
happiness to have the big swans swimming 
around him and stroking his neck with their 
beaks. 

52. Very soon some children came into the 
garden and threw food into the water. ‘ ‘ See, 
see, ’ ’ said the youngest, ‘ ‘ there is a new 
swan.” “Yes, a new one has come,” they 
all cried, and clapping their hands, they ran 
to tell their father and mother. Back they 
all came in a great hurry, their hands full of 
corn and bread and cakes. All these fine 
things they threw into the water, and the 
whole family shouted together, ‘ ‘ The new swan 

230 


ftbe *010112 HJuckllng 


is so young and so pretty; he is the most beau¬ 
tiful one of all.” The old swans seemed to 
agree to this, for they bowed their heads to 
their new companion. 

53. This made him feel very much ashamed, 
and he hid his head under his wing. While he 
was ugly he had been despised, and now they 
told him he was the most beautiful of all the 
birds. Even the alder trees and the plants 
that grew along the bank of the stream bowed 
and dipped their leaves into the water. The 
sun even shone clearer and brighter than ever 
before. 

54. It made the new swan, ugly duckling no 
longer, so happy it seemed as though his heart 
would burst. But he was not at all proud. 
He had suffered too much for that. He shook 
his white feathers, curved his slender neck 
gracefully and cried out, “I never dreamed 
that I could be so happy. ’ * 


©utltne 

1. The Teacher's Preparation. This is a 
story which country children will more quickly 
appreciate, but which perhaps has its strongest 
message for the children who live in cities. It is 
full of beautiful scenery and alive with the spirit 
231 



BppUeD jflftetbo&s 


of nature, while the animals that find their way 
into the story have for us the interest of human 
beings. It is a simple little story and it is not 
probable that there will be many words or phrases 
which you will need to study. Yet a little 
thought will show some things which appeal to us 
more strongly than they will to children. As 
• instances, consider the following : 

Children are not apt to appreciate the very 
human touch in the last sentence of paragraph 
8, “They are the very image of their father.” 

In paragraph 9 there is a very natural conclu¬ 
sion made by the wise old duck'who had sat upon 
turkey’s eggs. We always interpret new things 
by our experience with other things. 

In paragraph 13 is another human touch. 
When the duckling swims nicely, the mother 
changes her mind quickly; he is her child, he does 
not seem so very ugly. 

Again, in paragraph 16, the duck mother makes 
a very wise observation: “See, children, that is 
the way of the world.” If we stop to quarrel 
about things, some one else usually gets the 
benefit. 

You will hardly be able to explain to children 
all that is carried in the remark that the wild 
ducks make to the duckling in paragraph 24. 
There are numerous other expressions full of mean¬ 
ing to age and experience which may mean nothing 
to children. You must not destroy the interest 
232 


tibe tugIb SDucTtUng 


of your class by attempting to explain too much; 
but the adult, even, may read this story of the 
ugly duckling and find plenty of interesting ma¬ 
terial for thought. The first sentence in para¬ 
graph 51 contains a statement on which many 
grown people might bring out long philosophical 
discussions on the comparative influence of 
heredity and environment: “ You see it is not so 
bad to be born in a duck’s nest in a farmyard if 
one can be hatched from a swan’s egg.” 

2. The Persons, a. There are a great many 
characters in this story, and not a few of consider¬ 
able importance. However, the ugly duckling 
himself monopolizes our attention almost from the 
start; it is his story that interests us. Moreover, 
our interest in the human beings in this story is 
entirely secondary to our interest in the animals. 
When a human being appears, it is merely for the 
purpose of throwing light on the character of the 
animals or to assist in developing the plot 
for the animals. Therefore, it is the animals, 
especially the birds, that claim our attention. We 
should study the birds, then, in the same way that 
we would study human beings. We will not take 
the space at this time to say much of the ugly 
duckling, but after classifying the characters, will 
offer some suggestions for the study of them, 
putting the suggestions in the form of questions, to 
show what may be done to assist children in their 
work. We might classify the characters as follows : 

233 


BpplfeO .flftetbo&a 


Birds : 

Of Considerable Importance : 


The mother duck 
The ducklings 
The friendly old duck 
The ugly duckling 
The Spanish duck 


The wild ducks 
The wild geese 
Chicken Shortlegs 
Strange, beautiful 
birds 

Splendid swans 


Of Little Importance : 

Ducks Turkey-cock 

Hens Barnyard fowls 


Other Animals : 

Of Considerable Importance: 
Little Son 


Of Less Importance: 
A cat 

The hunter’s dog 


Human Beings : 

All of Minor Importance : 

The girl who kicked the ugly duckling 

The hunters 

The old woman 

The poor man 

The poor man’s wife 

The poor man’s children 

Some children and their parents 

b. The Mother Duck. What was the mother 
duck doing vhen we first saw her? Was she tired 

234 


ECHO LAKE AND EAGLE CLIFF, WHITE MOUNTAINS 































































































































































Gbe HlglE BuchUng 


of her work? Was she discontented? Was she 
perfectly willing to sit where she was until her duck¬ 
lings were hatched ? Did she show love for her 
children ? Why did she sit on the nest waiting 
for the big egg? Did the old duck in any respect 
treat her young ones in the same way that your 
mother has treated you ? Did the old duck love 
the ugly duckling? Do you suppose she was 
sorry when the duckling ran away ? 

Always ask the pupils to point out to you 
specifically the words in the story which give the 
foundation for their answers. Let them give the 
number of the paragraph or read the very words. 

c. The Hunter’s Dog. What did the hunter’s 
dog do when he saw the ugly duckling ? Why did 
he run away without harming the duckling ? Why 
do you suppose Hans Christian Andersen put the 
hunter’s dog into the story ? 

d. Some Strange Birds (par. 41). What were 
the strange and beautiful birds ? Why did the 
ugly duckling whirl in the water ? What was the 
strange cry that he uttered ? Why was he more 
sad and lonely after the beautiful birds had gone 
than he was before? 

It is not probable that the children will under¬ 
stand that these were swans, and that at sight of 
them the swan nature in the ugly duckling was 
stirred, or that this strange cry he uttered was the 
swan note made by him for the first time. 
Instinct led him to follow, and it was the swan 
235 


SppUet) flftetbo&s 


spirit stirring in him that made him wish he might 

be as lovely as they were. 

e. Ask questions about the other animals and 
birds that are noted as important, trying always at 
this point to get from your pupils clear ideas of 
what the animals looked like and what their 
function is in the story. This work throws side 
lights on the plot, which you will study more 
definitely later on, and it also paves the way for 
the character study which is coming. As a 
matter of fact, you have doubtless discovered long 
since, if you have been using these outlines in 
class, that you can not, when you are at work, 
always preserve the distinctions in subject-matter 
which are so easily kept in an outline. In spite of 
yourself you will find that the plot works itself into 
your study of the personal appearance and function 
of the persons and that the character of the indi¬ 
vidual is better understood after the plot and the 
scenes have been well elaborated. 

f. If your pupils live in the city and have not 
seen the birds and other animals mentioned here, 
you will need pictures and specimens to give a 
vivid interest to your story. Many times the ideas 
of country life and country beings which children 
carry away from city schools are pathetically 
erroneous. In the country you will not have to 
say much about the appearance of these animal 
characters ; you can devote yourself more fully to 
the study of the human side of their natures. In 

236 


Gbe ihaIe BucftUng 


the city the birds themselves, as birds, require 
much more of your attention. If your city is 
a large one and the parks are accessible, do not 
hesitate to take the children with you or to send 
them where they can see the ducks and the swans 
living in the ponds or lakes. 

3. The Plot. a. By questioning, collect the 
bare incidents of the story; strip them of all 
verbiage and set them down, one after another, so 
they can be seen in tabular form by the children. 
The children can then easily decide upon the rela¬ 
tive importance of these incidents. The incidents 
in this story are so numerous that it will require 
no little thought for the pupils to pick out those 
which are essential to the plot or main idea, which 
is that a bird born a swan will be a swan, in spite 
of his surroundings and notwithstanding his expe¬ 
riences. 

b. The Incidents. (1) The ugly duckling is 
Hatched (par. 11). 

(2) He swims like a duck (par. 12). 

(3) With his mother he visits the farmyard 
(par. 16 and 17). 

(4) He is laughed at by the fowls (par. 17). 

(5) He is bitten by a duck (par. 17). 

(6) The turkey-cock flies at him (par. 20). 

(7) The girl who came to feed the poultry kicks 
him (par. 21). 

(8) He runs away (par. 22). 

(9) He meets the wild ducks (par. 23). 

237 


BppUe& dftetboda 

(io) The saucy wild geese coax him away 
(par. 25). 

(n) The big dog refuses to hurt him (par. 27). 

(12) He reaches the cottage (par. 29). 

(13) He meets the old woman, Little Son and 
Chicken Shortlegs (par. 31). 

(14) He is discontented again (par. 36). 

(15) He flies away (par. 39). 

(16) He suffers from the cold (par. 40). 

(17) He sees the strange birds (par. 41). 

(18) He freezes in the ice (par. 42). 

(19) The poor man rescues him (par. 43). 

(20) He escapes from the poor man’s home 
(par. 44). 

(21) He lives through the winter some way 
(par. 46). 

(22) In the spring he flies far (par. 47). 

(23) He sees the splendid swans (par. 47). 

(24) He is willing they should kill him (par. 
48). 

(25) He sees his image (par. 50). 

(26) He learns that he is a swan (par. 50). 

(27) He receives his reward (par. 52-54). 

4. Character and Development, a. Although 
our interest centers in the story of the ugly duck¬ 
ling, his character is not so striking in many * 
respects as that of some of the animals of minor 
importance. He is a swan from the beginning, 
near enough like the ducks so that they do not 
consider him absolutely a stranger, yet never 
238 


ZXsc TnglE 2>ucftUng 


at home with them. In the eyes of the ducks 
he is big and ugly and awkward (par. 17), but he 
is good and swims finely, even better than the 
other ducklings (par. 18). We see from time to 
time that he was : 

Very sensitive (par. 22). 

Timid (par. 22 and elsewhere). 

Polite and respectful (par. 23). 

Grateful (par. 24). 

Often sad (par. 39 and elsewhere). 

Resigned (par. 49). 

Joyful (par. 50). 

It is evident that his unhappiness did not come 
from anything that was mean or unkind in his 
own disposition, but was a result of his suffer¬ 
ings. On the whole, the character of the ugly 
duckling is a lovable one. 

b. There are a number of the minor characters 
that will repay some thought. We shall use one 
for an illustration and you can select others and 
bring out their prominent traits in the same man¬ 
ner. We shall choose the hen, Chicken Short- 
legs. Develop her character by such questions 
as the following: 

Why did the old woman love her hen as though 
she were her own child (par. 31)? What did the 
hen do when she saw the ugly duckling (par. 32)? 
What does a hen express by clucking ? How did 
the hen feel concerning the house (par. 33)? 
What did she mean by saying we and the worldl 

239 


applies dftetbobs 


Why should she think that she and the cat were 
the better half of the world ? What did the duck¬ 
ling try to tell the cat and the hen ? Why would 
the hen not listen to him ? Why did the hen 
think the duckling had no right to talk (par. 34)? 
[Because the duckling could not lay eggs.] 
What did the duckling tell the hen in paragraph 
36 ? Was the duckling really lazy ? Did the 
duckling think nonsense ? Does the hen really 
mean that it would be fine to dive to the bottom 
and feel the water close over her head (par. 37)? 
What does the hen mean when she says, “I will 
not tell you what I think ” ? [She means to make 
a show of being modest, but in reality she feels 
great contempt for the duckling.] How does the 
hen feel when she says, “So we do not understand 
you?” (par. 38)? How would you read this sen¬ 
tence to show what the hen meant? What are 
the things the hen thinks ought to make the duck¬ 
ling contented ? Are the things the hen is saying 
to the duckling pleasant things ? Why does she 
say them ? Did you ever hear a person say to 
another, “What I am telling you is not pleasant, 
but that is a proof of my friendship ” ? Do you 
suppose people ever say things just to be disagree¬ 
able and then claim that they do it because of 
friendship ? Do you think the hen meant to be 
disagreeable, or was she really a good friend to 
the duckling? Did she really give him good 
advice ? Would it not have been very absurd for 
240 


Gbe TUgls 2)ucMfng 


the duckling to try to lay eggs or to learn to purr ? 
Do you suppose some of the advice given to one 
person by another is just as foolish as this advice 
by the hen ? 

Now sum up in a few words the character of 
the hen: An ignorant, conceited person, who 
thinks she knows a great deal and is fond of giv¬ 
ing advice, even though it is the most ridiculous 
kind of advice. 

5. Emotions and Feelings. You will find 
opportunities for interesting questions on the 
emotions and feelings of most of the characters 
that are of first importance, but our outline is 
growing so long that we can not give much space 
to this subject. Be sure to trace the ugly duck¬ 
ling to the end of the story and bring out his 
feelings at each incident. Try to get your pupils 
to see how the other animals concerned in the 
various incidents of the story contribute to arous¬ 
ing the feelings or emotions that the children 
think the ugly duckling has. 

6. Scenes, a. This story is unusually rich and 
varied in its scenes, and it is worth while to pic¬ 
ture each one of them vividly. When you have by 
questions located the several places where the in¬ 
cidents occur, encourage the children to describe 
these places more definitely from what they have 
seen themselves. If you are teaching in the coun¬ 
try, the children will be able to fill in most of the 
scenes from their own experience. If you are 

241 


BppUeD dfeetboDs 


teaching in the city you will probably find some 
in your class who will recognize the park and 
the tame swans which make the final scene. 

b. The following are the principal scenes : 

(1) A country place in summer time, with a 
duck's nest near the bank of the river. 

(2) A farmyard. 

(3) A great marsh (par. 22). 

(4) A cottage at the edge of the woods. 

(5) A pool in the winter time. 

(6) The interior of a farmhouse. 

(7) A beautiful garden. 

c. There are splendid opportunities for drawing 
vivid contrasts here: The summer landscape 
and the winter landscape should be set one against 
the other. Ask what differences there are besides 
those that the author mentions. Try to make each 
scene definite and particular ; not merely a coun¬ 
try place in summer, or a pool in winter. For 
instance, give the pool definite shape; show what 
trees were around it; what grasses grew near it; 
whether it was deep or shallow, or deep in some 
places and shallow in others; whether the banks 
were steep or sloping ; whether there were bushes 
near the pool or not. You know that a poor man 
came that way and found the ugly duckling. 
What inferences can you draw concerning the sur¬ 
roundings and location of the pool from that 
fact ? 

Another fine contrast can be made between the 
242 


Zl)C DuchUng 


children whom the duckling met in the poor man’s 
house and the rich children that came to feed the 
swans in the great garden. Clothe the children 
and make them live. 

7. Purpose and Lesson. It was the purpose 
of the author, doubtless, to write an entertaining 
story for children, but he intended, also, to arouse 
their sympathies for the ugly duckling by telling 
the story of his sufferings and misfortunes, and so 
to create, incidentally, a consideration and affec¬ 
tion for the lower animals. While it is possible 
that we may carry too far this matter of ascribing 
human feelings and emotions to animals, yet the 
more clearly we can show children that animals 
suffer as we do and are happy, in a measure, as 
we are, the more considerate they will be of de¬ 
pendent creatures. Moreover, every time a child 
indulges in cruelty and imposition he hardens his 
own nature and renders it less susceptible to the 
good and the beautiful. In other words, he 
restricts his own possibilities for real enjoyment. 
Accordingly, there is no reason why the teacher 
should not make much of the human traits in 
animals. Upon children young enough to enjoy 
this story, you may easily make a very vivid 
impression. 


2 43 


Exercise III 


METHOD FOR A NARRATIVE POEM 


Ifntrotmction 

The study of the narrative poem should be con¬ 
ducted first upon the same general plan as that 
pursued with any other story. However, you 
should not feel bound by a method or an outline. 
Be original in your work and consider always the 
class you have. The age, sex, the home surround¬ 
ings of your pupils—all must be taken into 
consideration in every recitation. The writer in 
preparing these outlines has in mind a teacher, a 
class and a place; but the teacher may not be 
yourself, the class may not be your class and the 
place may not be the one in which you are teach¬ 
ing. He trusts you to change the form of the 
outline of study to suit your own needs, hoping 
always that you will find help in the work that he 
has done. 

IFnctbent of tbe jfrettcb Camp 

ROBERT BROWNING 1 

i. You will find the text of this fine poem on page 227 of Volume 
V. It is printed also in Book Five of the Cyr Readers by Grades , 
published by Ginn & Co. See the Index in Volume X of this 
course of study for a biographical sketch of Browning and for 
other poems written by him. 


244 





UnciDent of tbe ffrencb Camp 


©ut line 

i. The Teacher’s Preparation. A person 
familiar with the writings of Browning should recog¬ 
nize the authorship of this poem. It illustrates very 
vividly some of the writer’s peculiarities. Your 
attention is called to a few of them in the notes 
under this heading. How many of these peculiari¬ 
ties it will be wise to present to your class, you will 
judge. In any case, you must 'give explanation 
enough to make the meaning of the poem very 
clear. 

Ratisbon. The city of Regensburg, or Ratisbon, 
is in Bavaria, on the Danube, opposite the mouth 
of the Regen. 

Napoleon. II your pupils know nothing about 
Napoleon, tell them briefly the story of his mar¬ 
velous career. Interest them in his exploits and 
character. You will be able to obtain sufficient 
facts from any encyclopedia. 

“Prone” Here the word means inclined , not 
lying flat. 

Lannes. This famous French marshal distin¬ 
guished himself by his bravery and his remarkable 
leadership in many battles. While he was fighting 
in the battle of Aspern against the Austrians both 
his legs were shot away, and he died a few days 
afterward at Vienna. 

“ Out-thrust ,” “ full-gallopingf flag-bird.” 

These are examples of the manner in which 
245 


BpplteD flbetboDs 

Browning often makes compound words for his 
own use. 

“Fancy.” Here the word means can imagine. 

* ( ' Twixt. ” This is an abbreviation for the word 
betwixt , used in poetry and rarely elsewhere. 

‘‘ Vans.” This word has long passed out of 
use. It means wings. 

“As sheathes a film the mother eagle's eye. ” The 
eagle has what is really a third eyelid, a thin, trans¬ 
lucent membrane. It is called the nictitating 
(winking ) membrane, and the eagle can draw it 
over its eye at will. The pupils may have noticed 
the membrane in ducks, chickens and other birds. 
In man and many other animals there is no such 
membrane. 

There are in the poem many examples of inver¬ 
sion of words from the natural order, and other 
peculiarities of structure that you will notice; for 
instance: Nor bridle drew; off there flung; to 
heart's desire [Whose heart ?] ; his chief beside. 

2. The Persons. Allusion is made to Marshal 
Lannes, but Napoleon and the unnamed boy are 
the only other characters mentioned. 

a. In spite of Napoleon’s historic importance, 
our interest lies chiefly with the boy, of whose 
personal appearance we have no description. We 
may infer that he was not a young boy, perhaps 
was eighteen or twenty years of age, tall, well- 
formed and manly in appearance. Because of his 
nationality we are led to expect dark hair and dark 
246 


llnciDent of tbc tfrencb Camp 

eyes. He doubtless had a strong, pleasing coun¬ 
tenance and a firm mouth. He was clothed in the 
uniform of a French orderly and rode a fine horse, 

b. The best way to give an idea of Napoleon's 
appearance is to provide yourself with a picture of 
him. These are very common, and usually repre¬ 
sent him in the characteristic attitude which 
Browning here describes. He was short (they 
called him Little Corporal), thick-set, and habitu¬ 
ally he stood with feet wide apart, his head thrust 
forward and his arms clasped behind him 
(stanza i). 

3. The Plot. a. Incidents. 

(1) Napoleon watches the storming of Ratisbon. 

(2) He thinks of the possibility of failure. 

(3) He sees a rider galloping toward him from 
out the smoke of battle. 

(4) The rider leaps from his horse in front of 
Napoleon and clings to the mane of the horse. 

(5) He announces the fall of Ratisbon. 

(6) Napoleon rejoices in the success. 

(7) He speaks to the soldier of his wound. 

(8) The boy answers and falls dead. 

b. Summary. A wounded youth brings to 
Napoleon news of the fall of Ratisbon and expires 
at the emperor's feet. 

4. Character and Development, a. The Boy. 

(1) Active and manly (stanza 2). 

(2) Joyful: in smiling joy (stanza 3, line 1) ; 
smiling , the boy fell dead (stanza 5, line 8). 

247 


HppUeD fiftetbobs 


(3) Strong willed (stanza 3, lines 4, 5, 6). 

(4) Courageous (stanza 4, lines 6 and 7). 

(5) Ambitious: to heart’s desire, perched him 
(stanza 4, lines 6 and 7). 

(6) Proud (stanza 5, lines 5, 6 and 7). 

b. Napoleon. 

(1) Ambitious (stanza 2, lines 1-4; stanza 4, 
lines 7 and 8 ; stanza 5, line 1). 

(2) Thoughtful (stanza 1, line 8). 

(3) Sympathetic (stanza 5, lines 2, 3 and 4). 

These are the prominent traits apparent in 

Napoleon from this poem. Of course you can 
enlarge upon these with profit, and show that as 
Napoleon was a real person, we know much more 
of his character than this incident shows us. In 
the study of the boy, on the other hand, we must 
confine ourselves entirely to the poem. 

5. Emotions or Feelings. 

a. Napoleon shows : 

Anxiety (stanzas 1 and 2). 

Joy (stanzas 4 and 5). 

Sympathy (stanza 5). 

b. The boy shows : 

Joy and happiness (stanzas 3 and 4). 

Pain: so tight he kept his lips compressed 
(stanza 3). 

Sensitiveness (stanza 5, line 6). 

c. The reader may feel : 

Admiration for the boy’s courage. 

248 


llnctbent of tbe tfrencb Camp 


Sorrow at bis death. 

Pride that human nature is capable of 
such stern self-control. 

A kindly feeling toward Napoleon for his 
sympathy. 

6. Scenes. To view-the scene of the incident, 
we must stand with Napoleon on the little mound, 
looking toward the battlefield a mile or so away. 
We cannot see what is happening back of the 
smoke from the batteries. Between us and the 
battlefield lies a level, open tract, we know, 
because we can see the boy galloping the whole 
distance. Our interest, however, here does not 
lie in the scenery ; it is concentrated wholly upon 
the persons. Yet the incident means more to us 
if we imagine it taking place within hearing of the 
roar of the battle. 

7. The Final Reading. This is an excellent 
selection for practice in expression. It is diffi¬ 
cult because of the involved structure of some of 
the sentences and the poetic meter, yet when once 
those are mastered it is a very effective selection. 
If you can interest your class, you will do well to 
spend some time in having different members 
read the poem. Let each pupil read the entire 
selection without any interruption. When he has 
finished, you and the class may both offer sugges¬ 
tions which will aid the next reader. 


249 


Exercise TV 

METHOD FOR A NARRATIVE POEM 


Tlbe /HMller of tbe Dee 1 

CHARLES MACKAY 2 

1. There dwelt a miller hale and bold 

Beside the river Dee ; 

He worked and sang from morn to night, 

No lark more blithe than he ; 

And this the burden of his song 
Forever used to be : 

“I envy nobody ; no, not I, 

And nobody envies me ! ” 

2. “ Thou’rt wrong, my friend, ” said old King 

Hal, 

‘ ‘ As wrong as wrong can be ; 

For could my heart be light as thine, 

I’d gladly change with thee. 

And tell me now, what makes thee sing, 

1. This poem is printed in Stewing Stones to Literature, A Third 
Reader , published by Silvei*, Burdette & Co. 

2. Charles Mackay was an English poet who died in 1889, at the 
age of seventy-five. He was at different times the editor of sev¬ 
eral important London newspapers and wrote many volumes of 
verse. 


250 




Ube fl&Uler of tbc Dee 


With voice so loud and free, 

While I am sad, though I’m the king, 
Beside the river Dee.” 

3 . The miller smiled, and doffed his cap. 

‘ ‘ I can earn my bread, ’ ’ quoth he ; 

‘ ‘ I love my wife, I love my friend, 

I love my children three; 

I owe no penny I cannot pay, 

I thank the river Dee 
That turns the mill that grinds the corn, 
To feed my babes and me.” 

4. ‘ ‘ Good friend, * ’ said Hal, and sighed the 

while, 

“ Farewell ! and happy be ; 

But say no more, if thou’dst be true, 

That no one envies thee. 

Thy mealy cap is worth my crown, 

Thy mill my kingdom’s fee ; 

Such men as thou are England’s boast, 

O miller of the Dee ! ” 


©utline 

1. The Teacher’s Preparation. Dee . This is a 
river in England and Wales. It flows by the city 
of Chester, and is an important stream. 

“Ha/e.” Robust or healthy. 

251 



HppUeO flfcetboDa 


“Lark.” Remember this is an English story, 
and the bird alluded to here is the skylark which, 
early in the morning, may be seen rising from the 
English meadows in a wide, spiral flight, singing 
one of the most melodious of bird songs. It goes 
in this manner to a great height, so as to be al¬ 
most beyond vision, all the time singing joyously. 
You may interest your pupils by reading parts of 
Shelley’s Ode to a Skylark , Volume IV, page 94, 
of this course. 

“ Blithe” Cheerful. 

“Burden ” That part of a song which is 
repeated at the end of each stanza; the refrain or 
chorus. 

“ Old King Hal .” This does not mean that the 
king was old, but rather that he lived a long time 
ago. 

“ King Hal.” This was King Henry of Eng¬ 
land, probably Henry VIII, who was known as 
“ Bluff King Hal.” 

“ Doffed.” Took off. The word doff is a con¬ 
traction of do off. 

“ Quoth.” Said. This word is never used ex¬ 
cept in the first and third persons and in past 
tenses. The subject always follows the word. 

“Fee.” Ownership or title. The line means : 
Your mill is worth more to you than my kingdom 
is to me. 

2. The Persons, a. King Hal. Not a word 
is said about the king’s appearance or his dress. 

252 


Gbe flMllec of tbe 2)ee 


Assuming that Henry VIII is meant, we must 
consider him rather young, fine looking, strong and 
well-built. There is a delicacy and refinement 
about him that is the result of his bringing up, and 
his hands are the soft, slender hands of a gentleman. 
He is dressed in a rich costume of the sixteenth 
century, for he reigned between 1509 and 1547. 
The rich coat, the doublet, hose, plumed hat, you 
can describe or show from pictures. 

b. The Miller. Not a word is said about the 
miller’s appearance or dress, except that his cap 
is mentioned twice, but we may clothe him in 
breeches and blouse of coarse homespun, whose 
color is hardly distinguishable, for he is covered 
from head to foot with the dust of the mill. He 
is stout, ruddy faced, with strong features bearing 
a good-natured expression that is helped by his 
bright, twinkling eyes. His hands are big, rough 
and coarse from hard work. 

3. The Plot. There is little or no plot to the 
story. Two men from very different stations in life 
meet and contrast their conditions. 

4. Character and Development, a. The King. 
(1) We know from history that Henry VIII was 
in his youth generous, brilliant and popular, but 
he was impatient of control and was swayed by 
violent passions, which made him in manhood 
selfish, cruel and very wicked. 

(2) From the story we find that the king was 
genial, independent of court rules and considerate 
253 


HppUcD ZlftetboDs 


of his subjects. He was thoughtful, sad, and 
burdened by the cares of his kingdom. But in 
spite of this, he was gracious in his manner, for in 
the last line he compliments the miller highly. 

b. The Miller. We know nothing of the miller 
except what the story tells us, but we feel sure 
that he was : 

Independent (stanza i, line i). 

Happy (stanza i, lines 3 and 4). 

Respectful (stanza 3, line 1). 

An affectionate husband (stanza 3, line 3). 

A loving father (stanza 3, line 4). 

A faithful friend (stanza 3, line 3). 

Provident (stanza 3, line 6). 

Grateful (stanza 3, lines 6-8). 

5. Emotions and Feelings. Emotionally 
there is little display in this poem, except for the 
strong contrast between the discontent and unhap¬ 
piness of the king and the absolute contentment 
and happiness of the poor subject. We can not 
help feeling a tender admiration for the sturdy old 
miller and some pity for the unfortunate king, 
who, perhaps, felt in himself those very traits that 
were to develop in him a wretched manhood. 

6. Scenes. This poem offers an opportunity 
for you to create from your imagination a very 
attractive stage-setting, or scene, for the meeting. 
Imagine yourself standing opposite the river Dee, 
somewhere near its source, where it still flows 
through the beautiful English countryside and has 

254 



BRIDAL VEIL FALL, WHITE MOUNTAINS 















Gbe /Biller of tbe Bee 


not yet been changed by the demands of trade and 
commerce. The mill, which faces you, is a low 
building of stone that, on the side next the river, 
is covered deep with moss. The roof is a thatched 
one, but is well kept, for you could not imagine 
this miller sheltered by a leaky roof. The meal 
and dust from the mill have come out from the 
door, which faces you, and have whitened the 
walls and the rude platform to which the farmers 
bring their grain. Across the low, arched bridge, 
below the mill, rides the king, a youthful figure, 
brightly dressed, but with downcast eyes and 
drooping head, for he is thinking of the burdens 
that his position throws upon him. For some 
purpose the dusty miller comes to the door, 
singing his blithe song, and the king draws up his 
horse beside the road to begin the conversation. 

This is a brief outline only of what you will 
wish to do with your class. Do not describe the 
scene as has been done here, but ask questions 
which will bring out from your pupils some 
elements in the picture. They will make mistakes, 
because they will not understand what an English 
landscape is like, or what the mill was or how the 
miller was dressed, but little by little they will 
awaken to the situation and help you with many 
vivid little touches of description. Above, we 
said nothing about the big wheel which is built up 
at the end of the mill and over which the water 
falls with a soothing murmur of contentment. Nor 
255 


2HppUeD /ifcetboDs 


did we say anything about the machinery that we 
could dimly see through the doorway—not machin¬ 
ery such as we have to-day, but the rude stones on 
which the meal was ground. Try to make each 
pupil see as distinctly as though they were painted 
before him on a canvas, the two figures in their 
charming surroundings. 

7. Purpose and Lesson. It is very evident 
that the poet had a distinct purpose in mind here. 
He intended to teach us a lesson in contentment, 
and to do it by making as strong as possible the 
contrast between the characters. He has taken 
two wide extremes in English life and showed very 
vividly that contentment is not dependent on wealth 
and position. Your best opportunities in reading 
this poem lie in the possibilities of drawing the 
picture and teaching the lesson of contentment 
that comes from honest toil and loving home 
companionship. 


256 


Exercise V 

METHOD FOR A LONGER STORY 


Mee Millie Minfeie 1 

i. Persons and Plot. a. The Teacher's Prep¬ 
aration. Read paragraph i, on page 13, and 
paragraph 4, on page 15, Volume I. Then read 
Wee Willie Winkie , applying to the story the 
methods suggested in the two paragraphs just 
mentioned. This story has been selected because 
of the great charm it has for children. 

b. Assignment to the Pupil. Read Wee Willie 
Winkie and write the name of the chief character 
and the names of three other characters, in the 
order of their importance. 

In assigning this lesson it may be necessary for 
you to point out standards of comparison that are 
to be used in determining the chief character, but 
often it will be better to permit the selection to 
be made without any advice. In this way one 
gets a much more accurate idea of the pupil's 
mental attitude. 

c. Recitation. (1) Principal and Secondary 
Characters. In which person were you the most 
interested? What first interested you in him? 
Did you keep your interest in him to the end ? 


1. This story is printed entire, beginning on page [175 of this 
volume. 

257 




applies f&etbo&s 


Was he always the one who interested you most? 
Were there times when some other person seemed 
of more importance ? Who was next in impor¬ 
tance ? Did this character help to increase your 
interest in the chief character ? What particular 
incident made you most interested in the second 
character ? By what particular incident did the 
second character increase your interest in the 
chief one ? 

(2) Developing the Plot. By questioning, try to 
find out from the pupil the incidents which, taken 
together, form the thread of the plot. In this case 
they are chiefly the things which Wee Willie does. 
It is often a good plan to begin upon the black¬ 
board an outline of these incidents, allowing it to 
grow as the conversation with the pupils continues. 
When finished it might appear something like this : 

WHAT WEE WILLIE DOES 
Wee Willie : 

Discovers Coppy’s love for Miss Allardyce. 

Promises secrecy. 

Falls into disgrace. 

Sees Miss Allardyce ride out of the canton¬ 
ment. 

Breaks arrest and follows on his pony. 

Overtakes Miss Allardyce. 

Meets natives bravely. 

Sends pony back. 

Breaks down when rescued. 

Demands his manhood. 

258 


mcc mntute TOnme 


Having brought out the incidents of the plot in 
this way, assign for another lesson the writing of 
this plot in the simplest, clearest, most direct way 
possible, omitting every unnecessary incident but 
retaining enough to show the framework of the 
story. 

d. Additional Work. In English and American 
Literature there are a number of other stories 
in both prose and poetry which can be used in 
this same way. Narrative poetry is the simplest 
poetry to read, and the pupil's first serious intro¬ 
duction to metrical composition should be by way 
of simple rhymed stories. Before the study of 
characters and plot is closed, the pupils should 
have read a very considerable number of both 
prose and poetical selections. After a time it 
will be found that the children can read very 
rapidly and will naturally omit the unimportant 
items and will concentrate their attention wholly 
upon the rank of the characters and upon the plot, 
a very desirable habit at this stage of instruction. 

In the following list, the selections are arranged 
approximately in order of difficulty : 

Prose : 

The Great Stone Face —I, 23. 

The Cricket on the Hearth —VII, 21. 

A Dissertation upon Roast Pig —II, 67. 

The Ambitious Guest —I, 155. 

Dream Children —II, 53. 

Sir Roger de Cover ley Papers —II, 125. 

259 


HpplteD /iftetboDs 


Poetry : 

Robin Hood and the Widow's Sons —V, 214. 

The Luck of Edenhall —V, 223. 

Jock o' Hazelgreen —V, 206. 

The Wreck of the Hesperus —V, 229. 

The Wind and Stream —IV, 154. 

The Revenge —V, 233. 

Enoch Arden —I, 109. 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner —I, 73. 

Macbeth —VI, 13. 

2. Character and Emotions, a. The Teach¬ 
er’s Preparation. Read paragraph 2, page 13, and 
paragraph 3, page 14, Volume I. Then read 
Wee Willie Winkie again and apply both para¬ 
graphs to it. 

(1) Character. A study of the story shows 
that Wee Willie is difficult to control, quickly re¬ 
pentant, active, faithful to his friends, ambitious,, 
proud, reliable, trustworthy, manly, heroic, 
lovable and loving. Find the incidents which 
make each of these traits clear, and have them all 
well in mind before facing the class. Determine, 
too, whether the faults in Wee Willie’s character 
are really bad ones or whether they grow out of 
his good traits. Why did he say, “I’m Percival 
Will’am Will’ams ”? 

(2) Emotions. In Wee Willie Winkie are 
shown gaiety, sorrow, happiness, fear, love, 
repentance and other emotions. What are those 
of the father? What are shown by Coppy and 

260 


mcc miue minitie 


what by Miss Allardyce at different stages in 
the story ? These emotions should be grouped, 
and it should be determined whether they are 
shown by the action of the person or are 
attributed to the character by the author. 

In the reader a different set of emotions is 
aroused—interest, admiration, pleasure, affec¬ 
tion. It is not to be supposed that exactly the 
same emotions will be aroused in any two people, 
or that the emotions which the children feel will 
be like those of the teacher. In fact, it will often 
appear that contrary emotions are aroused by the 
same incident. It can easily be imagined that 
there are boys at certain ages who will feel no 
emotion but that of contempt while they are 
reading the first part of the story, and they may 
be amused by some things that to the girls will 
appear pathetic. This difference does not signify 
that the story is failing to produce the right effect. 
Emotion belongs to the individual, not to the 
teacher, and if the pupil is sincere in expressing 
it, the teacher should be satisfied. 

b. Assignment to the Pupil. If the pupils are 
young, it will be enough in a single lesson to make 
them understand one or two traits of character and 
how these are shown by the people who possess 
them. Ask the pupil to commit his opinions to 
writing, to some extent at least, before he comes 
to the recitation. Do not ask too much at any 
one time. 


261 


HpplteD /iftetboDs 


c. Recitation. Use the method of questioning 
as far as possible. There is little or no use in 
telling the children what traits of character 
are shown, and certainly none in telling them 
what emotions are stirred in themselves; that 
is so purely a personal matter that all that the 
teacher can do is to help the pupil to look into 
his own mind. Do not try to do too much in one 
day, but pursue the questioning as long as the 
subject proves interesting. 

When the children see what is meant by 
character, question them as to the method used 
by the author in developing the character. Does 
he tell at once what Wee Willie Winkie’s character 
is and what it is to be, or does he depend upon 
us to learn it from the acts of the child ? Do we 
get intimations from the conversation of the child 
as well as from his acts ? What are the ways in 
which an author develops character ? 

How does he work upon our emotions ? Is it 
by telling us that we ought to be amused or to be 
sad, or does he leave the persons and incidents 
themselves to affect us ? 

d. Additional Work. Treat other characters in 
other stories read. Note wherein they resemble 
and where they differ from Wee Willie or the 
other persons in his story. For this purpose, 
Ernest, in The Great Stone Face (I, 23); Enoch, 
Philip and Annie, in Enoch Arden (I, 109); John 
Peerybingle and others, in The Cricket on the 

262 


rncc mute TOnfete 


Hearth (VII, 21); Robin Hood, in Robin Hood 
and the Widow's Sons (V, 214), and the boy, in the 
Incident of the French Camp (V, 227), are excel¬ 
lent. The character studies in Macbeth (VI, 13) 
and the section on Power of Drawing Character 
(VIII, 83) will be helpful, especially to the 
teacher. It may not be possible to use all or any 
of these particular characters in class, but if not, 
other characters which will answer the purpose 
can be found in the school readers. 

3. Scene, Local Coloring, Purpose and Les¬ 
son. a. The Teacher’s Preparation. Read and 
apply to this story paragraphs 5, 6, 7 and 8, on 
pages 16, 17 and 18 in this volume. 

(1) Scenes. Try to see vividly the places in 
which the various incidents take place. Treat the 
story like a play ; imagine it in different acts ; give 
to each act its proper scenery. Put each incident 
in its own proper surroundings. Try to get a 
picture of the cantonment, of the house in which 
Wee Willie lived and the roof where he took 
refuge, of the flower beds and the garden in which 
he built his camp fire, and of the stables. What 
was the scene of his famous interview with Coppy, 
when he promised to keep his friend’s secret? 
What was the scene in which he broke his arrest ? 
See as clearly as possible the plain, the rocks, the 
hills and the wild natives that made the back¬ 
ground for the accident. 

(2) Local Coloring. A writer’s skill is often 

263 


BppUeD /ifbetboDs 


best shown in the vividness of his local coloring, 
in the atmosphere of reality which he gives to the 
incidents he describes. It is easy enough for him 
to tell us that things are thus and so and happen 
in such and such a place, but to make us feel from 
the beginning to the end of the story that we are 
actually in the places he describes and associating 
with the people, is a much more difficult matter. 
The local coloring in this story is most vivid. 
Find out the different ways in which that color is 
given. It is not always an easy matter to deter¬ 
mine, but in this case it can be seen, for instance, 
that all the methods of punishment that Wee 
Willie suffers are suggestive of military life : he 
receives good-conduct pay ; he is deprived of his 
good-conduct stripe or badge; he is confined to 
barracks instead of to his room ; and when he is 
naughty, he suffers arrest. We6 Willie’s pleasures 
suggest camp life : he loves to wear Coppy’s big 
sword, to play with his medals. The great mis¬ 
conduct for which he suffers is the making of a 
camp fire . In indirect ways, too, Kipling suggests 
military life and in the most natural way and 
without any apparent attempt. Wee Willie is 
guilty of mutiny and his nursery is called his 
quarters . In describing an act, he speaks of 

trumping the ace , a phrase from a card game not 
unusual in soldiers’ barracks. So far, the local 
coloring has been that of the camp and of military 
life in general, and might have fitted almost any- 
264 


mcc Millie Mmfcle 


where in English-speaking countries, but Kipling 
goes further and makes us see in many ways that 
the country is India and not Great Britain or the 
United States. Perhaps the most noticeable 
method of doing this is in the profuse use of tech¬ 
nical words. Ayah , Baba , hut jao , Pushtu , Sahib, 
Bahadur , pukka and nullahs are Indian words, 
while bungalow , cantonment and waler are words 
not generally used outside India. 

(3) Purpose and Lesson. The author’s purpose 
in writing this story is not altogether clear, and 
the teacher will often find that there 'are stories 
in which it is not worth while to push the ques¬ 
tion of purpose very far. Perhaps in this case 
Kipling wrote for his own amusement and profit, 
with the hope that people would be entertained 
by what he had written and that their appreciation 
for childish character would be increased. A 
lesson there is in the story, certainly, but the wise 
teacher is always guarded in his efforts to incul¬ 
cate a lesson by pointing out the estimable traits 
of character shown. The lesson is taught by the 
story itself, and much of the good influence of it 
may be lost if it is analyzed too closely. Yet 
Wee Willie’s respect for his pledged word, his 
protecting care for women, and his bravery are 
worth more than passing notice. 

b. Assignment to the Pupil. Bring to the class 
lists of the Indian words, of the words and 
phrases which show that the story is about 
265 


HppUeD fiftetboDs 


military life, and of the peculiar pleasures, 
rewards and punishments of Wee Willie. In 
order to make these lists, the pupil will be 
obliged to read the story again in a particularly 
intelligent manner—a most excellent drill. 

c. Recitation. By questioning, again, bring 
out the various bits of local color and try to 
create in the pupils the feeling of reality and 
of naturalness in the whole story. Show the 
harmony of its different parts and the harmony 
in the acts of Wee Willie and his surroundings, in 
his speech and his acts. 

d. Additional Work. By taking the stories 
which have been referred to under the title 
Additional Work , in sections i and 2 of this les¬ 
son, a great variety in local coloring may be 
brought out, and it will be seen how different 
authors are in their ability or wish to give vivid 
atmosphere to their composition. 

Are there stories in which the events might 
have happened anywhere, in any season of the 
year and among almost any class of people? 
Are there others which could have happened in 
but one place and under one set of conditions ? 
An appreciation of the atmosphere of a story 
can come only by rather wide reading. The 
teacher should not expect to get very definite 
results from his class in the first few efforts. Do 
not be afraid to use the same stories over and 
over, if the purpose for which they are used is 
266 


Mee MUUe Mlnfetc 


different each time. The three lessons which 
have been given cause reading for three distinct 
purposes, and each is applied to a number of 
different stories. By using the same stories thus 
over and over again at intervals, the pupil is 
given a most effective and pleasing review. 


267 


Exercise VI 
A PLEASING BALLAD 


Zhc IRomance of tbe Swan's West 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 1 

1. Little Ellie sits alone 

’ Mid the beeches of a meadow, 

By a stream-side on the grass, 

And the trees are showering down 
Doubles of their leaves in shadow, 

On her shining hair and face. 

2. She has thrown her bonnet by, 

And her feet she has been dipping 
In the shallow water’s flow ; 

Now she holds them nakedly 

In her hands, all sleek and dripping, 
While she rocketh to and fro. 

3. Little Ellie sits alone, 

And the smile she softly uses 
Fills the silence like a speech, 

While she thinks what shall be done, 

And the sweetest pleasure chooses 
For her future within reach. 

1. Consult the Index to these volumes for information concerning 
Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning and her works. 

268 




Gbe IRomance of tbc Swan'5 meat 

4. Little Ellie in her smile 

Chooses, “ I will have a lover, 

Riding on a steed of steeds : 

He shall love me without guile, 

And to him I will discover 

The swan’s nest among the reeds. 

5. “And the steed shall be red roan, 

And the lover shall be noble, 

With an eye that takes the breath. 

And the lute he playes upon 

Shall strike ladies into trouble, 

As his sword strikes men to death. 

6. 4 ‘ And the steed it shall be shod 

All in silver, housed in azure ; 

And the mane shall swim the wind ; 

And the hoofs along the sod 

Shall flash onward, and keep measure, 
Till the shepherds look behind. 

7. ‘ ‘ But my lover will not prize 

All the glory that he rides in, 

When he gazes in my face. 

He will say, ‘ O Love, thine eye.: 

Build the shrine my soul abides in, 

And I kneel here for thy grace ! ’ 

269 


Applies /HbetboSs 


8. “Then, aye, then he shall kneel low, 

With the red-roan steed anear him, 
Which shall seem to understand, 

Till I answer, ‘ Rise and go ! 

For the world must love and fear him 
Whom l gift with heart and hand. ’ 

9. ‘ ‘ Then he will arise so pale, 

I shall feel my own lips tremble 
With a yes I must not say : 

Nathless maiden-brave, ‘Farewell,’ 

I will utter, and dissemble— 

‘ Light to-morrow with to-day ! ’ 

10. “Then he’ll ride among the hills 

To the wide world past the river, 

There to put away all wrong, 

To make straight distorted wills, 

And to empty the broad quiver 
Which the wicked bear along. 

11. “Three times shall a young foot page 

Swim the stream, and climb the moun¬ 
tain, 

And kneel down beside my feet: 

‘ Lo ! my master sends this gage, 

Lady, for thy pity’s counting. 

What wilt thou exchange for it ? ’ 

270 


Zbc IRomattce ot tbe Swan's Best 

12. “ And the first time I will send 

A white rosebud for a guerdon— 

And the second time, a glove ; 

But the third time—I may bend 

From my pride, and answer—‘ Pardon, 
If he comes to take my love.’ 

13. “Then the young foot page will run— 

Then my lover will ride faster, 

Till he kneeleth at my knee : 

‘ I am a duke’s eldest son ! 

Thousand serfs do call me master,— 
But, O Love, I love but thee\ ’ ” 

14. Little Ellie, with her smile 

Not yet ended, rose up gayly, 

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, 
And went homeward, round a mile, 

Just to see, as she did daily, 

What more eggs were with the two. 

15. Pushing through the elm-tree copse, 

Winding up the stream, light-hearted, 
Where the osier pathway leads, 

Past the boughs she stoops, and stops. 

Lo, the wild swan had deserted, 

And a rat had gnawed the reeds ! 

271 


HppUeD /iftetboDs 


16. Ellie went home sad and slow. 

If she found the lover ever, 

With his red-roan steed of steeds, 
Sooth I know not; but I know 

She could never show him—never, 
That swan’s nest among the reeds. 


©utltne 

i. The Teacher’s Preparation. “Showering 
. . . doubles. ” Did you never see on the ground 
shadows of leaves which are often shaped like the 
leaves themselves ? 

“Smile . . . fills the silence .” Call attention to 
the very pretty fancy embodied in these lines. 

“ Red roan.” Such a horse’s coat would have 
gray or white thickly interspersed with the red. 

“Lute.” Notice that Ellie had been reading 
romances of the days of chivalry, when knights 
rode about on horses and played and sang sweet 
music to their ladies. We should think it very 
strange now for a soldier to play upon a lute. 

“ Housed in azure.” The saddle-blankets of the 
old time knights were often large and beautifully 
ornamented. Ellie wished her knight to have one 
of rich blue. 

“ Nat hiess.” This old word, which means 
nevertheless , has long since passed out of use, but 
it was a common word in the days, of chivalry., 
272 



Gbe TRomance of tbe Swan's West 


Here it affords one of the many instances of local 
coloring in the poem. 

“ Foot page.” The knight of olden times was 
followed everywhere by his squire, or personal 
attendant. Being a nobleman, he might have a 
page, or serving boy, though usually the page was 
the servant of the ladies. 

“ Gage.” The knight sent a cap, glove or some 
other symbol of the fact that he had performed 
the commission laid upon him. 

‘ ‘ Guerdon. ” Reward. 

“Round a mile.” On her homeward walk she 
went far out of her way to see whether more eggs 
had been laid in the swan's nest. 

2. The Scene. Mrs. Browning gives us the 
following facts from which to make our scenes : 

a. The Main Scene, (i) A meadow, in which 
grew beech trees. 

(2) A shallow stream, running between low 
banks. We are told that the water is shallow, in 
the second stanza. We know that the banks are 
low, for Elbe sat on the bank and dabbled her 
feet in the water. 

(3) A little girl, with sunbonnet, shoes and 
stockings beside her. 

(4) Bright sunlight, to give warmth and beauty. 
We know the sun is shining, else the leaves would 
not be showering down their doubles. 

b. The Swan's Nest. (1) A thick grove of elms. 

(2) A stream of water, reeds close to the bank 

273 


HpplteD /ifcetboDs 

of the stream, willows outside the reeds and next 
the trees. 

(3) A rude path. 

(4) A deserted swan’s nest. 

(5) A sad child. 

3. The Persons and Their Characters, a. 
The Chief Character. Ellie, aged about twelve. 

(1) Appearance, (a) Slender and delicate. 

(b) Sweet, intelligent face, with express¬ 
ive eyes and mouth. 

(c) Light, shining hair. 

(2) Character, (a) Intelligent. (Shehas read 
a great deal, or some one has read to her a great 
deal, from the old romances which deal with 
knights and chivalry.) 

(b) Highly imaginative, or she could not 
have thought so charming a story. 

(c) Dreamy. 

(d) Happy. (“The smile she softly 
uses fills the silence like a speech.”) 
See also stanza 14. 

(e) Loving (stanzas 9 and 12). 

(f) Strong-willed (stanza 9). 

(g) Humane (stanza 10). 

(h) Proud. (Note that beginning with 
(e) the characteristics are those which 
she gives herself in her revery.) 

(i) Sympathetic (stanza 16). 

b. The Imaginary Characters. (1) A Foot 
Page. (We know very little about the young foot 
274 


Gbe IRomance ot tbe Swan's West 

page, except that he was a strong, active young 
fellow, devoted to his master.) 

(2) The Lover's Horse, (a) The lover’s horse 
was a steed of steeds, a red roan wearing silver 
shoes and covered by an azure blanket. 

(b) Its mane was long and flowing. 

(c) It galloped with long, regular 
strides. (Stanzas 4, 5, 6.) 

(3) The Lover. He was noble in appearance, 
with flashing eye (stanza 5) ; a fine musician 
(stanza 5) ; a skillful rider (stanza 6) ; polite and 
gracious (stanza 7); a devoted lover (stanzas 8- 
13) ; sensitive (stanza 9); a brave soldier (stanza 
10) ; constant (stanzas n and 13). 

To Elbe he was the embodiment of all the 
graces and perfections of which she had read. 

4. The Plot. a. The Opening. Ellie sits by 
the stream on a summer afternoon, and dreams 
(stanzas 1, 2, 3). 

b. Her Revery (stanzas 4-13). (1) She will 
show her lover the swan’s nest. (To the little 
child, the swan’s nest is her greatest treasure, 
and from it her reveries start, but they soon 
wander far away among half-understood mem¬ 
ories. 

(2) The lover woos her (stanzas 7 and 8). 

(3) She dissembles her love and imposes con¬ 
ditions (stanzas 8 and 9). 

(4) The knight oursues his career of righting 
wrongs (stanza 109. 


275 


Applied flftetbods 

(5) He sends Ellie a gage, for which she re¬ 
turns a rosebud. 

(6) The knight sends his second gage, for 
which she returns a glove. 

(7) The knight sends his third gage, and she 
calls him to her. 

c. Denouement. Ellie walks homeward and 
sees the deserted swan’s nest. 

5. Summary. The reveries of the little child 
bring to her a brave and noble knight, who loves 
her devotedly. In her charming simplicity, the 
great reward she has to offer him is a sight of the 
swan’s nest, of which she alone knows. Visiting 
the nest, she is brought sharply back to earth by 
finding the nest deserted and the eggs gone. 

6. Purpose and Lesson. In this charming 
little story, the purpose is to show how rudely 
realities break in upon our dreams. Mrs. 
Browning says she does not know that Ellie ever 
found her lover, but if she did, she could never 
show him the swan’s nest. Our inference is that 
Ellie never found the lover she expected. She 
returned to her home, grew into womanhood and 
found that in real life there were no noble lovers 
on red-roan steeds. 

“ So the dreams depart, 

So the fading phantoms flee, 

And the sharp reality 
Now must act its part.” 

— Westwood. 


276 


fliMsceUan? 







•'Vi< . „ r 































- 



















WAYSIDE, HAWTHORNE’S HOME AT CONCORD 




































































. 






















































































IRatbantel Ibawtborne 

1804-1864 

Nathaniel Hawthorne was a true American. 
From his father who, like many of his ancestors, 
was a shipmaster, the boy inherited resolution of 
character; from his mother, beauty and rare refine¬ 
ment. His childhood was rather unusual from its 
lack of regular education; his studies seem not to 
have been formal, but he delighted in Spenser’s 
Faery Queene , Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, Shake¬ 
speare’s dramas, and Milton’s poetry. When ten 
years old he was sent to his uncle who had inter¬ 
ested himself in the boy since the death of the lat¬ 
ter’s father. On his uncle’s farm near Lake Sebago, 
he spent a most profitable year, rambling in the 
woods, delighting in their solitude, observing and 
recording what he had noted. He then returned 
to Salem to finish his preparation for Bowdoin 
College which he entered in 1821. Here he failed 
to distinguish himself as a scholar, but excelled in 
English theme-writing and Greek and Latin trans¬ 
lation. After his graduation in 1824 came the 
period of his life which brought him the reputa¬ 
tion of being eccentric. Literature he had chosen 
as a profession; that meant, to one of his exacting 
sense of duty, a thorough, independent prepara¬ 
tion. For twelve years he lived at his mother’s 
house as a recluse, shunning society, often even 
279 


IFlatbanlel Ibawtborne 


that of his mother and sisters, scarcely leaving the 
house except on lonely rambles. These years, de¬ 
voted not to regular study but to brooding, dream¬ 
ing, and written expression, were of the greatest 
significance. At this time he perfected his mar¬ 
velous style, applying to it most conscientious and 
rigorous tests. His writings, however, notwith¬ 
standing their merit, received no wider circulation 
than that of local papers and magazines. 

He was married to a Miss Peabody, of Salem, in 
1842, and settled at Concordinthe “Old Manse.” 
His Twice Told Tales , written while he was in se¬ 
clusion, had been published and fame was coming 
to him slowly. He had profited by his wholesome, 
practical life as weigher and gauger in the Boston 
Custom House, and as Surveyor of the port of 
Salem, so that when a change in political parties 
removed him from the latter office he was pre¬ 
pared to produce the first and greatest of his four 
long romances— The Scarlet Letter. This won 
for him immediate.fame. The House of the Seven 
Gables and The Wonder Book for children, The 
Blithedale Romance and Tanglewood Tales succes¬ 
sively appeared. President Pierce, perhaps his most 
intimate friend, appointed Hawthorne to the con¬ 
sulship at Liverpool. For four years Hawthorne 
lived in England, then traveled in Italy, where 
The Marble Faun was written. 

After his return, his health became steadily 
poorer. Thinking to gain new strength, he started 
280 


Iftatbanlel ibawtborne 


on a little tour with ex-President Pierce (1864) 
but got no farther than Plymouth, New Hamp¬ 
shire, when the sudden death he had always wished 
for overtook him. Five days afterwards he was 
buried in “ Sleepy Hollow ” in the Concord cem¬ 
etery. 

Hawthorne’s personality left a most vivid im¬ 
pression on those who came in contact with him. 
His manly form and strikingly beautiful face won 
him immediate attention, and his silence and reti¬ 
cence set him off in a world of his own where none 
might approach. Joined with his resolute strength 
was a distinctly feminine element of character, a 
fine susceptibility showed in every expression of 
his face, and in an extreme shyness which caused 
him to blush on the slightest provocation even 
when among intimate friends. Social occasions 
were torture to him. His calm, gentle spirit was 
satisfied in the atmosphere of his home made happy 
by one of the most perfect marriages. 

Hawthorne has been often entirely misunder¬ 
stood, he has been called a pessimist and a fatalist 
who develops repelling subjects in morbid style. 
Even his friend, the philosopher Emerson, felt that 
his genius had been rather unfortunately used and 
had taken too dark a course. But according to 
his wife and children, he was the very reverse of 
gloomy and morbid. His daughter speaks of him 
as “ the gayest person I ever saw; there never was 
such a playmate in all the world; ” and his wife tells 
281 


IRatbanfel ibawtborne 


of his cheerfulness and wit. The man’s spirit was 
too great and true, too nearly in harmony with all 
that is good, to limit itself to a gloomy view of 
life. It was merely that in the all-engrossing ob¬ 
servation of the sadder side of man’s inner life, 
the origin, growth, and effects of sin best suited 
his genius. The human heart with its struggles, 
its falls, and its triumphs, rather than the ex¬ 
ternal world and its conditions, constituted for 
him the reality of life. With the aid of constant 
introspection and a marvelous penetration, he 
made his study of the souls of men, deploring the 
curses of sin and moved to the depths of his nature 
by the inevitable suffering from transgression. 

But although Hawthorne’s life-work was this 
ethical study, never did he aim at making his 
writings the direct medium of moral teaching. 
The artistic, beauty-loving side of his nature was 
too strong to allow of his becoming a preaching 
author. A proof of the abiding greatness of his 
works is that there are woven in with them moral 
problems for the solution of which he gives sug¬ 
gestions but never advances an arbitrary theory. 
The art in his works was secured by a thorough 
study of effective expression, yet his style seems 
a natural growth from the very essence of the in¬ 
ner thought, so naturally and easily does it flow 
along. It is sometimes delicately humorous and 
always clear even when expressing most subtle 
thoughts and fanciful images. The mystery and 
282 


HatbaMel Dawtborne 


shadowy influences, the spirit of another and 
superhuman world, which haunts all of Haw¬ 
thorne^ works, appear among familiar scenes 
and find expression in a style which might de¬ 
scribe commonplace fact. 


283 


Samuel Ua^lor Goieri&ae 

1772-1834 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge was one of the most 
remarkable figures of English Literature. He 
was constitutionally awkward in his carriage and 
manners, and seemed altogether lacking in 
physical energy, yet he possessed a personal 
magnetism that drew about him a group of 
friends who became almost his disciples. The 
poet Southey was the warmest of these, and when 
Coleridge, unable to provide for his family, 
meanly abandoned them, it was Southey who took 
their support upon himself. For a period of sev¬ 
enteen years Coleridge was a slave to opiates, and 
during this time he became wholly unreliable and 
lost most of his power to write, though he could 
talk fluently and delightfully. After he put him¬ 
self entirely into the hands of a London physician, 
whose judicious and kindly care was a remarkable 
testimony to the attractiveness of Coleridge, he 
recovered much of his former power. He lived 
for some years with Southey and Wordsworth in 
the beautiful lake region of northern England, and 
formed with them what is known as the Lake 
School of Poetry, characterized by a sympathetic 
interpretation of nature. 

The Ancient Mariner was begun by Wordsworth 
and Coleridge working together, but the vivid im- 
284 


Samuel Ga^lor Coleridge 


agination of the latter caught the idea of the piece 
more firmly and worked it out in all its beautiful 
details. In the poem as it finally appeared, 
Wordsworth contributed but a few trifling lines 
besides the following: — 

“ And listens like a three years’ child : 

The Mariner hath his will.” 

“ And thou art long, and lank and brown, 

As is the ribbed sea-sand.” 

Wordsworth says he suggested that “some crime 
was to be committed which should bring upon the 
Old Navigator as Coleridge afterwards delighted 
to call him, the spectral persecution, as a conse¬ 
quence of that crime and his own wanderings. 
I had been reading in Shelvocke’s Voyages, a day 
or two before, that while doubling Cape Horn 
they frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, 
the largest sort of sea fowl, some extending their 
wings twelve or thirteen feet. ‘ Suppose,’ said I, 

* you represent him as having killed one of these 
birds on entering the South Sea, and that the 
tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to 
avenge the crime.’ The incident was thought fit 
for the purpose and adopted accordingly. I also 
suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead 
men, but do not recollect that I had anything 
more to do with the scheme of the poem.” 

The Ancient Mariner was published in Lyrical 
Ballads , a book which marked an epoch in litera- 

285 


Samuel Sailor ColeclDge 


ture, as it showed a strong tendency away from the 
formalism of the past and toward a natural realism 
tempered by graceful imagination. Most of the 
poems in the little volume were by Wordsworth. 

The wonderful genius of Coleridge showed itself 
when he was a boy, and it was of him that Charles 
Lamb wrote: “Come back into memory like as 
thou wast in the dayspring of thy fancies, with 
hope like a fiery column before thee — the dark 
pillar not yet turned— Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 
logician, metaphysician, bard! How have I seen 
the casual passer through the cloisters stand still, 
entranced with admiration (while he weighed the 
disproportion between the speech and the garb') 

. . . to hear thee unfold, in thy deep, sweet in¬ 
tonations the mysteries of the philosophers . . . 
or reciting Homer in his Greek, or Pindar, while 
the walls of the old Grayfriars re-echoed to the 
accents of the inspired charity boy.” His incom¬ 
plete life was owing to his diseased will, against 
the weakness of which he struggled. When his 
publisher remonstrated he wrote, “You have 
poured oil in the raw and festering wounds of an 
old friend’s conscience, Cottle!—but it is oil of 
vitriol! I have prayed with drops of agony on 
my brow, trembling not only before the justice of 
my Master, but even before the mercy of my 
Redeemer: ‘I gave thee so many talents; what 
hast thou done with them ? 9 ” 

In spite of his weakness and the incompleteness 

286 


Samuel Ga^lot Coleridge 


of his work, he was an influence as a critic, a 
poet, a philosopher, and a theologian. 


“He suffered an almost lifelong punishment for 
his errors, whilst the world at large has the un¬ 
withering fruits of his labors and his genius and 

his sufferings .” 


Nothing can surpass the melodious richness 
of words which he heaps around his images,— 
images not glaring in themselves, but which are 
always affecting to the very verge of tears, be¬ 
cause they have all been formed and nourished in 
the recesses of one of the most deeply musing 
spirits that ever breathed forth its inspirations 
in the majestic language of England. 

—John Wilson. 


287 




Blfrefc Uertn^son 

1809-1892 

There is little of striking interest in the life of 
this most popular of modern English poets. His 
was the quiet uneventful life of the scholar and the 
poet. The one great event that influenced his 
genius most profoundly was the death of his be¬ 
loved friend, Arthur Hallam. The deep spiritual 
experiences through which he passed in the ten 
years following this blow he has embodied in his 
matchless In Memoriam , a series of lyrics in which 
he expresses his grief, his despondency, his recon¬ 
ciliation to the fate that comes to all, and his pro¬ 
found faith in the God whose wisdom and love he 
recognizes in everything. Enoch Arden is per¬ 
haps the most popular of his poems. We shall 
have occasion to recur to him and his work at an¬ 
other time and at greater length. 


288 


IRufcsarfc Ikiplino 

1865 -— 

It was about the year 1891 that an enthusiastic 
article in the London Times called the attention 
of English readers to a young man who was then 
in the city and who had recently published certain 
tales and poems of life in India. This was the 
beginning of the fame of Rudyard Kipling. He 
was twenty-five years of age and was at the end 
of a long and fruitless journey to find publishers 
and readers. He had left India about a year 
before and had been in Hong Kong, in San 
Francisco, in New York, nowhere finding em¬ 
ployment or publisher, until in London he found 
a firm willing to risk something on his manu¬ 
script. 

As one reads the Plain Tales from the Hills , 
Soldiers Three , Departmental Ditties , The Gadsbys 
and In Black and White , one is lead to inquire 
why publishers could have been so blind to the 
power in the writings of this young journalist. 
And yet the cause was not far to seek. The 
stories were plain and almost rough, the style di¬ 
rect and positive, and the homely characters pos¬ 
sessed so much vitality and real aggressiveness 
that the critics would not admit either value 
or beauty in the tales. They felt the force but 
believed the public would be shocked at the 
289 



TRuD^arD IRIpUng 


lack of conventional form and the evident in¬ 
tent to show things as they are. Besides, Kip¬ 
ling was introducing new persons. The world 
knew and praised the official in army life but 
here was a man who persisted in bringing the 
private soldier. Tommy Atkins, in his every¬ 
day garb, right into the literary drawing room. 
Naturally people hesitated to receive him. Since 
that time Kipling has gained marvelously in 
popularity and has contributed much more to 
our literature though there are still those who 
say -that he is famous but not great. 

He was born in Bombay, the son of an Eng¬ 
lish artist. As a child he was original and will¬ 
ful, having no particular love for the toys of 
his age but absorbed in books and puzzling 
games. He was very fond of his father, who 
took him in 1878 to see the Paris Exposition, 
and then left him in school in England. Here 
he remained till he was eighteen. He gained a 
prize for his work in English Literature but 
was not otherwise distinguished for his scholar¬ 
ship. 

In 1883 he returned to India and became 
chief editor on the Civil and Military Gazette. 
Here he worked with feverish industry, ran¬ 
sacking the city for news and absorbing almost 
by intuition the characteristics of the life he 
saw among the varied classes that crowd an 
Eastern city. He was intimate with the English- 
290 


IRu&SarD UtfpUng 


man in Indian civil life* with the officers and 
privates of the army, and with the natives of 
countless sects and tribes. The extent and ac¬ 
curacy of his power of minute observation seemed 
to be equaled only by his ability to appreciate 
character and enter into the thoughts and feel¬ 
ings of those whom he met. Men were no more 
transparent to him than were animals, and later 
in his Jungle Books he made use of his wonder¬ 
ful insight. He wrote much for his paper and 
there he first published many of the stories 
that afterward made him famous in London. 
He left his work in India in 1890 on the search 
that terminated in fame. It is interesting to 
note that he always had perfect confidence that 
eventually his work would be appreciated. 

In 1891 he returned to America, and labored 
with Wolcott Balestier until the latter's death. 
When Kipling married the sister of his friend 
he settled at Brattleboro, Vermont, where he 
built a beautiful house which he named The 
Naulahka , after the story which he and Bales¬ 
tier wrote together. 

He has been a great traveler, has written 
much of different countries and different peo¬ 
ples and always with the same directness, ac¬ 
curacy, and marvelous penetration. His most 
famous single piece is The Recessional which we 
publish elsewhere. 

He is quick and lively in his movements and 
291 


IRubgarb IKfpltng 


somewhat nervous in temperament. He shuns 
publicity, enjoys retirement, and declines to be 
lionized. He is small and nearsighted but ath¬ 
letic in his habits; is practical in the manage¬ 
ment of his affairs and is always neat and well- 
dressed — a man of the world. 

James Whitcomb Riley calls him a “regular 
literary blotting-pad, soaking up everything on 
the face of the earth. ,, When the Hoosier Poet 
sent a copy of his Child World to Kipling the 
latter responded: 

“Your trail lies to the westward, 

Mine back to mine own place. 

There is water between our lodges — 

I have not seen your face; 

But I have read your verses, 

And I can guess the rest, 

For in the hearts of children 
There is no east or west.” 

Anyone who understands baseball and knows 
Kipling’s poetry will appreciate “Mr. Dooley’s” 
remark: “What I like about Kipling is that his 
pomes is r-right off the bat.” 


292 


Supplementary IRea&tna 


As supplementary to the work which is required 
here in the course, it would be an excellent plan 
if you would make a similar brief review of some 
novel which has made upon you a notable impres¬ 
sion. It is not to be supposed that this volume 
contains all the literature you will study in this 
manner. While you are studying this part, devote 
your general reading to prose fiction and narra¬ 
tive poems, many excellent examples of which 
you can find in current numbers of the best maga¬ 
zines and in the books of the public or school 
library. When you have finished any novel, 
story, or poem, give it a few moments , considera¬ 
tion and see if you could discuss it under the 
heads of our outline. As a person reads, an un¬ 
dercurrent of thought seizes and arranges impor¬ 
tant ideas, and leaves them as very definite im¬ 
pressions, even though the reader has at no time 
given conscious attention to these details. The 
purpose of this portion of your study has not 
been fully accomplished until in your reading you 
find yourself without effort and almost uncon¬ 
sciously knowing the points we have discussed. 


293 



Ubc Ittovel 


Story-telling must have begun with brief 
recitals of the incidents of everyday life, from 
which it was but a step to more elaborate re¬ 
citals in which the imagination colored the 
account. People listened eagerly in the early 
days of the race as children listen now, and 
when it became possible to record them in per¬ 
manent form stories were incorporated into the 
literature of the race and fiction became a fact. 
But the way was long from that point to the 
present, and it was not till the middle of the last 
century that the novel became of serious impor¬ 
tance as a department of literature. Richardson, 
Fielding, and Smollet may be said to have formed 
the first school of novelists that exerted any influ¬ 
ence on the people. Goldsmith and Sterne also 
established a reputation that seems destined to 
last throughout time despite all variations in pub¬ 
lic taste. But most of these early writers were 
like the people among whom they lived, and did 
not consider decency as by any means necessary 
in a novel, and their work was usually character¬ 
ized by a coarseness and vulgarity that shock our 
more refined tastes. It was not far from the time 
of the breaking out of the Revolutionary War that 
the outcry against the indecency of fiction pro- 
294 



Gbe Wove! 


\r 


duced a class of writers who substituted the fop 
and the dandy for the rake and the libertine, and 
who carried their sentimental folly to such an ex¬ 
treme that they filled with disgust the people who 
had heralded their coming with joy. Whipple 
says of these writers that their inspiration was 
“love and weak tea,” and he charges them with 
being the chief source of the “contemporary pa¬ 
rental objection to works of fiction.” But with 
the coming of Waver ley, the first novel by Sir Wal¬ 
ter Scott, the sentimental school vanished, and the 
novel rapidly grew to the important place it to-day 
occupies. 

“Fundamentally a novel must be interesting. 
It must furnish the mind with something new, 
something that it can possess and conserve, and 
something it can perpetuate and give to others, 
for these are the elements of pleasure. It must 
appeal to the aesthetic sense by that which can in 
no way be regarded as a necessity to life, by that 
which has no disagreeable accompaniments or in 
which the disagreeable is subordinate to or trans¬ 
muted by other ideas, and by that whose enjoy¬ 
ment is not restricted to a single mind and does 
not perish with the using. The novel may have a 
scientific value if it is historical, if it enters the 
domain of natural history, or if it is a study of 
social conditions, psychological or ethical prob¬ 
lems. It may have a moral value as it influences 
to good conduct by the examples it furnishes, as 
2 95 


tlbe movcl 


it indulges in direct preaching, and, more than in 
any other way, as it shows the true relation of 
cause and effect in human life. Lastly the novel 
may have an aesthetic value when it gives a quiet 
contemplative view of beautiful things, and when 
v it brings to us the refinements of reproductive art 
or the novelties and elegancies of a new creation.” 
So much at least does Daniel G. Thomson see of 
the character and possibilities of the novel. 

Again, Walter Besant in lecturing on the Art of 
Fiction sums up the characteristics of a good novel 
much in the following manner. It must show a 
fidelity to life that comes from trained observa¬ 
tion, and must be characterized by a vividness 
of description that makes the reader see the fig¬ 
ures and their environment as though before his 
very eyes. There must be a suppression of all de¬ 
scriptions which hinder instead of help the action, 
all episodes and conversations which do not either 
advance the story or illustrate the characters. 
Every situation should be presented dramatic¬ 
ally, for a novel is like a play. Every figure 
must be sketched clearly and distinctly, and must 
possess the vitality of actual life so that we may 
know them all personally, “know them so well 
that they become our advisers, our guides and our 
best friends, on whom we model ourselves, our 
thoughts, and our actions.” In addition to all 
this the novel must have a conscious moral pur¬ 
pose. “It is, fortunately, not possible in this 
296 


Gbe mo vc\ 


country for a man to defile and defame humanity 
and still be called an artist.” 

These are the principles that students should 
hold in mind in their reading; they are the canons 
of their criticism, the basis of their judgment of 
the novels they read. 

There are many types of novels, and one could 
not make a perfectly satisfactory classification on 
the basis of their purpose or the character of the 
plot. The underlying method of the author and 
the style of treatment he adopts are more sus¬ 
ceptible to grouping. 

Two schools exist among writers. The realis¬ 
tic school depicts things as they are and subordi¬ 
nates incidents and plot to persons and their 
characters. Realism deals with the real things of 
life, with every day affairs and in its best form 
stands for truth. The idealistic school colors 
truth with imagination and sets forth things as 
they should be or might be, rather than as they 
are. Naturally novels of the latter school abound 
in incident, have startling plots and make no 
pretense to develop character. The old romance 
is typical of the idealistic novel. Realism tem¬ 
pered a little by the imagination, produces the 
best type of the novel, the one which always 
becomes absorbing and inspiring. Arlo Bates has J 
written: “ Genuine art may sadden, but it can not 
depress; it may bring a fresh sense of the anguish v . 
of humanity, but it must from its very nature join 
297 



Gbe Ittovet 



I 





with this the consolation of an ideal. The tragedy 
of human life is in art held to be the source of new 
courage, of nobler aspiration, because it gives 
grander opportunities for human emotion to vin¬ 
dicate its superiority to all disasters, all terrors, 
all woe.” Unless a novel fulfills this purpose it is 
not worth the reading as a work of fiction. The 
purely realistic novel of the type alluded to above 
should be classified with works of scientific soci¬ 
ology and read only by the student of criminology. 
The romantic novel in which the plot is every¬ 
thing and the people are merely puppets, serves 
only the purpose of entertainment, and every per¬ 
son must decide for himself how much of time he 
can afford to spend in pure intellectual play. 



298 


XTbe Short Storg 


The short story has its distinctive place in 
literature, and of late it has become, perhaps, the 
most popular form of fiction. Possibly this is 
unfortunate, for it is doubtful whether this be the 
most profitable form of reading. It tends to pro¬ 
duce a mental restlessness and a craving for ex¬ 
citement that the longer and more finished novel 
does not encourage. Probably the chief objec¬ 
tion to the short story lies in the fact that its char¬ 
acters rarely have a living personality. They 
pass from the reader’s sight before they have had 
time to produce a serious impression. It is true 
that Ernest lives among his friends and that Rip 
Van Winkle is a vital creation, but they are ex¬ 
ceptions to the rule. Ivanhoe is the ideal hero of 
boyish imagination because he was seen for a long 
time and frequently, in a great variety of circum¬ 
stances, and Jeanie Deans could never have made 
the friendship of the thousands of her admirers if 
Sir Walter Scott had compressed her career intd 
the limits of a single magazine article. 


299 



Observations 


Of all the printed books that ever vexed the 
wise and charmed the foolish a bad novel is prob¬ 
ably that which best displays how far the mind 
can descend in the sliding scale of sense and 
nature. — Whipple . 


The elements of light and hopefulness are es¬ 
sential to a living novel. There may be plenty of 
tragedy but this should be the shadow in the pic¬ 
ture; and no true, pleasing picture can be printed 
in black or lurid red alone. A story can not hold 
a large place among the living which leaves an 
unredeemed impression of horror or even of 
despondency. — E. P . Roe. 


Every man reads himself out of the book that, 
he reads; nay, has he a strong mind, reads himself 
into the book and amalgamates his thoughts with 
the author’s. — Goethe . 


3 °° 






Great IRovels 


The following are a few of the novels that have 
moved or entertained the world, novels which 
every person should know. The list could be 
much lengthened without doing violence to our 
principles of selection, and it might be shortened 
without offense. 


ENGLISH. 

The Vicar of Wakefield. — Oliver Goldsmith. 

“One of the most delicious morsels of fictitious com¬ 
position on which the human mind was ever employed.” 

— Scott. 

Ivanhoe. — Sir Walter Scott. 

An historical romance of the time of Richard the 
Lion-Hearted. 

The Heart of Midlothian. —Sir Walter Scott. 

A story of Scotch life in the lower classes. Jeanie 
Deans is one of the greatest characters in fiction. 

Henry Esmond. — Wm. M. Thackeray. 

The period of the story is the reign of Queen Anne; 
one of the great historical novels of the language. 

The Newcomes. — Wm. M. Thackeray. 

A satirical novel of the realistic type. It gives 

us Col. Newcome, a delightful creation. 

Vanity Fair. — Wm. M. Thackeray. 

An interesting story, characterized by bitter realism 
and keen satire. 


301 



<3reat TFlovels 


David Copperfield. — Charles Dickens. 

A story of middle-class life in England. It is said 
to be partly biographical. “ Of all my works I like 
this the best,” said Dickens. 

Oliver Twist .— Charles Dickens. 

It vividly portrays the struggles of a pure boy among 
the criminal classes of London. 

Romola .— George Eliot. 

One of the greatest of historical novels. A tale of 
Florentine life in the time o£ Savonarola. It is a 
remarkable study in the development of character. 

Middlemarch. — George Eliot 

A pathetic story of failure. By many claimed to be 
her greatest work. 

AMERICAN. 

The Last of the Mohicans, The Spy , and The Pilot . 
— James Fenimore Cooper. 

The first, a thrilling story of Indian adventure, and 
one of five books relating the career of Natty Bumpo, 
or Leather-Stocking. The second, a story of New 
York and vicinity in the time of the Revolution. The 
last, a stirring Revolutionary tale of the sea, introduces 
Captain Paul Jones. 

The Scarlet Letter .— Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

A story of sin, punishment, and repentance, in Puri¬ 
tan New England. 

The House of the Seven Gables. —Nathaniel Haw¬ 
thorne. 

A gloomy story of heredity, with enlivening touches 
from youth and happiness. 

3 02 


(Breat Ittovels 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin. —Harriet Beecher Stowe. 

A story of slavery in the Southern States. This book 
was a great influence in bringing on the Civil war. 


The following, though scarcely in the same 
rank, are well worth the reading: 

Hypatia. —Charles Kingsley. 

Lorna Doone. —R. D. Blackmore. 

A Daughter of Heth. —William Black. 

The Rise of Silas Lapham. —W. D. Howells. 

The Grandissimes. —Geo. W. Cable. 

Marcella. —Mrs. Humphrey Ward. 

The Bostonians. —Henry James. 

Saracinesca. —F. Marion Crawford. 


3°3 



iRevlew ®uest(ons 


1. What words and phrases can you find in 
Wee Willie Winkie that give local coloring to the 
story ? 

2. Do you find in the character of Wee Willie 
anything unreasonable for a child of his years ? 

3. What are the peculiarities of his speech? 
Are they such as a child of his age might have ? 

4. Gather together the passages in The Am¬ 
bitious Guest that locate the scene of the story. 

5. What purpose did Hawthorne have in mak¬ 
ing this guest such a character as he describes ? 

6. What striking contrast can you find in the 
personal character of Hawthorne and Kipling ? 

7. What was there in the life of Coleridge that 
would seem to account for the curious introduction 
of supernatural events into The Ancient Mariner ? 

8. Which is the most intensely local: Enoch 
Arden, The Ambitious Guest , or Wee Willie 
Winkie ? 

9. Study the emotions which you find Philip 
to show. Does Tennyson carry your sympathy 
with Philip in these emotions ? 

10. Make a written comparison, covering each 
of the points of the outline for study, between The 
Ambitious Guest and Wee Willie Winkie, striving 
to show in which respect each story excels. 

304 






•s 





































































